The Beginning
by HappierThanMost
Summary: Ponyboy isn't the only Curtis with a story to tell.
1. Chapter 1

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter One_

"I'm pregnant."

I hate the way she says it. Hate that we can't be in a good enough place that she might announce this news with happiness. And how, after the words tumble out, she looks up at me through her lashes, eyes worried as hell. She knows as well as me we can't afford no more. I try everything I got in me to make my damn mouth just give her somethin'. She deserves a smile at least. But all I can do is nod and look around the dimmed kitchen and quietly say, "Okay," then let out a long, tired breath.

So it's no surprise when she sits back in the hard chair, face covered, shoulders shaking with hushed sobs. I'm responsible. For her worry, her sadness, her exhaustion. Hell, for her pregnancy. I bring my hand down my face, try to wipe away my selfish fears and pull out the chair to sit beside her. It creaks when I lean forward and run a hand up her thigh, snaking my way underneath the long t-shirt of mine she wears to bed. "C'mon Maggie. It ain't all bad. We'll make it work." But the words don't sound like mine and end up falling flat.

"Daddy?" comes a soft, seeking voice and the sound of little feet are fast approaching. Maggie immediately starts to compose herself, wiping her tears, working to steady her shaky breath. By the time Darry arrives she's greeting him with one of those smiles, the ones I married her for, but you can't ever fool that kid. "What's wrong?" He looks to me, uneasy, knowing full well his mother's smile is out of place on such a flushed and tear streaked face.

But that trembling smile is the best she can do, and I know talking's damn well out of the question for her so I take over. "Mom laughed so hard at one of my jokes she done worked herself up. Ain't that right, Momma?" I look to her and she's nodding her head, her two front teeth biting her lower lip, all for Darry, but I know a fresh set of tears is fixing to spill so I get right up and take my boy's hand. "Let's get you back in bed kiddo, what do ya say?"

As I tuck Darry in I feel like crawling up beside him and falling asleep right there. My shift tonight about put me under and I don't know where I'll find the strength to go back to that kitchen and face the grenade Maggie threw right when I got home. I was just trying to heat the leftovers and then get some shut eye before I have to do it all over again. "What happened to Momma?" Darry asks, his pale blue eyes squinting up at me, inspecting my face carefully.

I rub his fresh haircut and change the subject. "Boy look at this head of hair. Mom about buzzed you down, huh?"

He laughs and touches the short, soft hairs that are standing up. "I wanted her to though. Feels better under my helmet."

"Well, I'd reckon so. Who'd y'all play today?" And I let him tell me about the game he dreamed up, how it was first and ten at the twenty yard line with two minutes left. The fumble was recovered, taken right back down the field by none other than Darrel Curtis, Jr. He ain't yet six, but that boy's head is entirely on football, imagining his own players and detailed bowl games, his team always on top. On a few occasions he'll allow himself a pretend loss and I have to bite back a chuckle whenever he takes it real, real hard.

He finishes with a yawn, revealing a gap where a bottom tooth used to be, and I poke at it, making him giggle. "Well where do you suppose that one run off to?"

"You know, Daddy. Tooth fairy took it."

"You mean to tell me that ole girl stole your tooth right out from under your pillow? My my," and I turn out his lamp, kiss his forehead and give myself a moment to just look at him. My first. His eyes are already closed and I sit there trying to figure how and when his face lost that baby look.

I remember the way Maggie looked when I took her away from her Daddy's house. I'd tried everything to get that man's blessing. But he wasn't having none of it. No daughter of his was gonna marry a non-Catholic, a no good cotton baler, an outsider. We left for Oklahoma that night, to the justice of the peace and a job at the oil rigs I'd heard about through a trusted field hand. At only nineteen, we'd packed the car with nothin' but hope and the thrill of escape, and I don't think I've ever felt so confident as we rolled out of town, while Louisiana and everything in it became nothing more to us than a swamp of bad memories. Maggie was beautiful sitting beside me, brave. She looked over at me like I was the one who had the power to hold up her world, and with our baby she was expecting and one of her smiles, I wanted nothing more.

My strained muscles fight me as I stand up and make my way down the hall, stopping to peek in at Sodapop all sprawled out, taking up most of the crib he's outgrown. Guess he'll be hitting Darry's bed sooner than he'd like. Oh well, 'bout time, but I'm already dreading the fights that'll cause. Soda won't sleep anywhere else but his crib and Darry won't want to share his bed with a toddler. I run my fingers through his locks that are curling up, matting at the nape of his sweaty neck. His face is blanketed by the long dark eyelashes he gets from Maggie. I kiss my two fingers and place them over his lips, his mouth that comes from me.

I hear Maggie busy in the kitchen. She's put out the food for me I was trying to heat in the first place, but my stomach is in somersaults and I don't think I want it anymore. No matter; I'm gonna have to act like I do and force it down.

As soon as I sit at my place, the head of the table, I work to get back the control of this situation. Maggie needs me to tell her this is a good thing. Not that we'll make it work. Not that we'll get through this hiccup that's happened. She needs me to act strong and capable, pleased even, while I'm wondering how the hell we'll survive this…accident. God, I hate to think of my own kid that way and I know I'm gonna love it, but I just need a few minutes to catch my breath and wrap my head around it all.

"Maggie," I say and grab her hand as she's passing behind my chair and pull her easily into my lap. "I thought you looked like you were glowin' this mornin'." I flash her a grin, but I can tell she ain't biting on that line when her breath escapes her in a huff. I plow forward. "I'm being serious. I've had some time for it to sink in and I'm really glad about it," I say with an an air that nobody but… well, nobody but Maggie can see right through.

She gives me a few soft pats of appreciation for my attempts, her hand small against my shoulder, but her eyes look wet and worried as she shakes her head and it's as though she doesn't even have the strength, when what she says is in a pained whisper, "We're gonna fall apart." With that she leaves the room and I'm knocked back by her words, by her look of defeat. Since when did Maggie Curtis ever give up?

* * *

How on God's green earth did I let this happen? Had I not counted my cycle out right? I knew when to avoid Darrel, I knew the nights I needed to turn him away from me, even when I wanted so badly to get close. I guess I don't have my own body figured out, cause I'm right back where I was at nineteen. But that was different. Then, I didn't know what to expect, what to fear, what to worry about. And now, I know too much. How hard times can get.

Just the other day I had the idea of working some, and the thought excited me. I was gonna try and take on a few sewing jobs and do it all right in our house. I was gonna pull some weight around here and I figured I could make it work, even with Sodapop always under foot. But now, how can you get anything done when your milk's coming in and a baby's clinging on your breast? I hadn't even told Darrel of my idea and I guess I won't now, not for another couple years anyway.

We were more ahead when Sodapop was born. So ahead we hadn't even worried with counting my days. If I ended up pregnant, so be it. And when I found that I was, we were thrilled. Two kids. That's what we wanted. We were complete.

And then the oil company was bought and so many workers were let go. It hit hard, but Darrel took on two jobs and always made the money last. Now, in this situation, it doesn't take a genius to know he can't do more than he is already. And I'm scared this is gonna destroy him, us.

I'm just sitting in the bathroom miserable, on the tub's edge, listening to Darrel out there cleaning up his dishes. I should be doing that.

I look at the toilet and think back to this morning, when I leaned over and got sick into it. I knew that familiar nausea so well I didn't even need to go to the doctor for the test. But I went anyway, I guess cause I didn't want to accept it just yet. I said my appropriate, "Oh how wonderful," to the lady who handed me my results, then I dragged those misbehaving boys back home and waited, my nerves undone, for Darrel to come in. As much as I didn't want to tell him, I also didn't want to be the only one bearing this truth. And I suffered through supper, squabbles, bath time, Soda's tantrum, bedtime prayers, with a mind that raced around in circles, all while trying to be a decent mother, a human being, not the caged animal I felt like.

I know I didn't deliver the news how I should've. I didn't ease him into the thought, just threw it out there, letting the chips fall. Why shouldn't he feel so shocked and take on the look of a deer in headlights? Of course he reacted that way, so I don't know why I got so upset by it.

A tentative knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts and I'm almost ashamed to open it. I'd let my fears get the best of me and he didn't deserve to hear my worry of us being destroyed. What's wrong with me?

I open the door and there he is, still the most handsome man I've ever seen in my life and my breath catches just looking up at him. His sideways smile alone is enough to make me think all's right with the world, and he takes my hand in his and says, "C'mere."

I let him lead me out to the front porch, into the dark October night that's warmed by an Indian summer, down to the truck's dusty tailgate. "I hardly have on clothes Darrel," I remind him nervously, and I tug at the bottom of my shirt, his shirt, and glance around for any neighbors. "And what if I can't hear the boys get up?"

He just lights a cigarette, then pats the truck bed beside him to get me to sit. "The neighbors, the boys, they're all out like a light. It's just you and me, Maggie." I could listen to him say my name all day long in that slow, sexy drawl of his.

He's standing, leaning against the truck, and I can smell his aftershave that still clings to him after a long day working, breaking his back for the four of us.

"Look at this," he says, his arm sweeping across the view of our yard, the house. I look at it all and take it in. "Did you ever think we'd have all this? We're nothin but twenty-five years old Maggie." I nod, realizing he's right. We do have a lot. His voice carries the familiar sounds of the bayou we left behind when he says, "We got all our years ahead of us. And look at what we've made with the first six."

He sits down and puts his arm around me, his cigarette glowing between his fingers, reflecting on his wedding band, and my stomach quickens at the sudden excitement I feel. He sends the cigarette sailing with a flick and asks, "Now do you really think a third baby's gonna take us down? Hm?"

My eyes spring with tears and I can feel my face beaming so hard it might just crack. "No," I say, knowing how completely right he is, how completely irrational I was all day. "I wonder if it's a girl or a boy," I find myself saying and I realize I can't wait to find out, can't wait to feel the baby kick, can't wait for all of it. Even the diapers, the sleepless nights, the utter chaos.

Darrel's smile is warm when he places his hand on my stomach, and I can't be sure it's not just some strategy to soothe my emotional breakdown, but I see that his eyes hold that unmistakable spark, which tells me he's all in. Hell, he's always been all in. I've never met someone who's more willing to roll the dice, to jump feet first in everything when it comes to us. I should've known the night I watched him try and talk sense into my father. And when he lost that battle, it was me who won, cause he took me out of that house and never looked back. Darrel Curtis rescued me from a harsh and unforgiving life and gave me the one that I'd dreamed up somewhere deep inside me.

"I think it's gonna be a boy," he says and I'm sure that's his wish. He can't see himself raising a girl, but I can. He practically raises me up everyday. I can almost feel the baby inside of me settling into the comfort that's now radiating throughout my body, inside my womb.

I bring my hand up to feel the tufts of hair that kick out at the back of Darrel's tanned neck and he's leaning his face down to mine with those eyes, those lips, and draws me up. I feel my body rise to meet him as we lean back into the truck's bed while a nearby train thunders by; its noisy ruckus calls out into the night unnoticed. And we're swept up in our never-ending storm of passion that keeps landing me in the same delicate condition every few years.

And twenty-five never looked more beautiful.

 **A/N:** The Outsiders by SE Hinton


	2. Chapter 2

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Two_

This ain't how it was supposed to be. Ain't nowhere near how we imagined this day, this homecoming. Maggie's not left our bed since we got home, and it's way past nine o'clock. The boys wore themselves out with their excitement, and are thankfully passed out in their bed they share, still wearing their clothes. I didn't have the energy, the care enough to get them changed. I just sit at the kitchen table, not knowing what to do next, swept up in a thousand different emotions at battle with each other, and I'm a bystander to my own feelings, wondering which one will win the fight. I guess that'll be the one I go with. But right now….well, I'm lost.

Nora Thompson comes from the back bedroom and her hand, gentle but firm, now rests on my shoulder. I look up at her, so thankful she's our neighbor and Maggie's trusted friend. She's been over the past couple days with the boys, tonight with Maggie, and because she's older and wiser, I've let her take over my household. She's acted as a kind of mother to Maggie since we moved in this little house, and tonight she's a Godsend. I hang on to her soothing words like a lifeline, desperate for some direction. "She's asleep again, Darrel. I'll be back in the morning to check on y'all." She pats my hand and starts toward the back door.

"Thank you Nora," I choke out, and I have to stop myself from begging, from physically holding on to her legs so she can't leave me here like this, so unsure.

Maybe she senses this somehow, cause she stops and turns around. "It's gonna be okay Darrel. All of it," she tells me in her kind voice. "She needs only time. She just lost and gained so much. Both of you did, honey." She smiles her sorrow and then gives her last instruction. "I've pre-made some bottles for Ponyboy. They're in the refrigerator. But remember, you mustn't give it to him cold. Heat them up in a saucepan of water and test a little on your wrist. I'm sure Maggie will feel up to nursin' soon." All of a sudden her eyes sparkle and her face lights up. "He took down that last bottle like a hungry colt. He's beautiful Darrel." And she walks back to her house of garden gnomes and wind chimes.

Her last words swirl through me and all my warring emotions. And with them, somehow my pain and loss are contained, for this moment anyway, and pride and love burst forth, triumphant. Ponyboy…Ponyboy is beautiful.

 _I always hear the joyful chaos before I ever reach the door, the radio and tv blaring, Soda's shouts louder than all of it, and I love comin' home from work on Saturdays. These are the nights I don't work a late shift and can enjoy a nice family supper. I walk in to find Darry sitting Indian style in front of the tv, preferring to watch The Lone Ranger while wearing his football helmet. I give it a few knocks as I pass through to the kitchen. "Hi Daddy," he answers, but doesn't budge from his spot._

 _The kitchen is warmed by the oven and Maggie hasn't noticed I'm home. She's singing along with Perry Como as she mashes the potatoes, and her growing stomach only adds to her beauty. "What's cookin' good lookin'?" I say and kiss her neck from behind, reaching my arm around to embrace her. My kiss tickles a sensitive spot and she shivers and her laugh comes out as a squeal._

" _Darrel, you scared me. Look at my goosebumps." I take the arm she extends and rub it, then turn my attention to Soda who's been tugging at my jeans since I walked in._

 _"Hey Partner," and it ain't no surprise he's only in his underwear and cowboy boots, with his toy pistol tucked through on his hip._

 _"Oh Darrel, you gotta hear this," Maggie says, suddenly excited, and she turns down the radio, pulls the kitchen chair from the table, then turns it to face us. She lifts Soda up, boots and all, to stand in it, and his grin is huge, cause he's so happy to be taller and in the limelight. "Okay Soda, 'member what you learned today? Sing it for Daddy," she urges him sweetly._

 _Soda starts going to town on a jazzed up rendition of "When the Saints Go Marching In." Maggie's hands are up and over her mouth, and I watch her melt at the cuteness of him feeling the rhythm, a three year old singing like he means it. Her eyes are shining with delight when she looks at me after he finishes._ _"Is that the cutest thing you ever saw in your life?"_

 _And I agree and clap, resisting the urge to ask her what in the world she's doing to my rough and tumble boy. I make a mental note to spend more time with him._

 _Maggie rushes to pull out the pot roast and I swing Soda down from his perch, rub his hair and say, "A cowboy who sings for his supper, huh? Run along, show Darry them wrestlin' moves I taught ya," and I go wash up._

 _Maggie's cutting the boys' meat and I grab a beer, sitting down with a sigh of relief after a long day. I ask Maggie how she's feelin' and she tells me all about the baby kicks that are aimed at her rib cage, but I can tell she's holding something back._

 _"Darry, napkin in your lap," I say firmly. That boy's having a hard time with his table manners and I'm getting tired of reminding him every meal._

 _Maggie falls back in her chair and instead of diggin' in, she watches the boys eat and helps Soda when he has trouble._

 _I didn't want to make this the topic at the table tonight, but I go on and tell her I've put in for a job with the highway department. It pays better than the ranch and I'll keep my night job at the factory. I know Maggie's look and she's feeling sorry. "Darrel, I don't want you to have to quit the only job you've ever loved."_

 _I hate the thought of walking away from it, only to go dig ditches. Breaking in them horses is what I'm actually really good at, but I'm even better at hiding my disappointment, and I smile at my plate and shrug it off. "Ain't a big deal. It'll help when the baby's here, and who knows. Maybe I'll go back to it one day."_

 _Soda's milk spills across the table and Maggie's struggling to get back up, so I get the dish towel for her and start wiping the table and Soda down. He's crying and blaming Darry, who quickly calls him a liar. The table is as loud and messy as it always is, making it difficult to carry on any conversation. "I went to the doctor today, everything's fine," Maggie says matter of fact._

 _"That's real good,"I answer and I return to my seat, putting Soda up in my lap. I notice she still hasn't eaten a bite._

 _"Somethin' interesting did happen though," and her eyes are so locked on me, I'm startin to get real uncomfortable._

 _"Oh?" I wait._

 _"Dr. Altman used his special stethoscope on me today, that horn lookin' thing he listens through, presses on my stomach, real deep. Took him a long time." Her smile, though nervous and unsure, spreads across her face. "He heard two heartbeats," she says and just so I understand her correctly, she adds, "We're havin' twins."_

* * *

What kind of mother rejects her baby? They put him against my chest, and he knew me by smell. Nature took over, so he was rooting for my breast right away, and I just handed him right off to the nurse. How can I give him any milk when I'm an empty shell? Darrel explained it away, said "She just ain't ready yet," and they all started talking about me like I wasn't in the room. And I wasn't.

I can't begin to think about mothering right now, not this baby, not Soda or Darry, when the loss is a throbbing ache so deep and unbearable. I want to escape myself, my own wretched body, and the only reason I don't bring my hands up to claw away at my face like I want to, is because there's already pain and blood seeping from between my legs, and that gives me a bit of consolation right now. I want, I _need_ to be bleeding out and hurting. Anything to try and match the twisting agony I carry inside me now, in place of the boys I carried a few days ago.

One is gone. He's gone.

I feel Darrel looking in on me and I act asleep, but I'll never sleep again. I just stare at my crucifix, and remember the night I found out I was expecting. What a fool I was to be so upset. It's no wonder God has punished me.

I can still hear my father shouting after me when Darrel took me out of Louisiana. "The devil's already dancin' on your grave, little girl," and I just kept my eyes on Darrel and watched him drive us away from there. Not believing a word of it. But maybe I'm thinking Daddy was right. I didn't follow any of the rules, and now there's Hell to pay for all these sins.

I know Darrel's hurting too. I'm so lost though, I can't find him to help him, even if I could. He had to handle everything at the hospital, and I saw him cry for the very first time in my life. But unlike me, he's built so solid. He can't keep from moving forward, and though he reaches out in the dark to drag me along, I can't go with him this time. I guess I'm losing him too.

Ponyboy's cries break the silence and I know they're hungry cries. For the first time, I feel somewhat of a tug. I feel something inside me that wakes up and screams for Ponyboy. But I can only lie there and listen to Darrel tend to him. I wonder at how he can handle scooping him up, and talk to him with such loving tenderness, gently shushing and soothing. When he's the carbon copy of who we lost. Should I dare to think us lucky that we'll always know what our missing boy would look like as years go on? Or is it a cruel reminder?

No, not Ponyboy. Something so beautiful could never be made as penance.

If I should ever pull myself out of this misery, this torture, I vow to do whatever it takes to never let Ponyboy know of this tragedy. I don't want him living with the grief, aware of what's missing. Why should he suffer with this too? Sodapop will forget, and I'll just make Darry promise to never speak of it again. This might be the only way I can move forward from all this. Can I? Should I? The only answer is so far down in me it's primal, and it's starting to rise up, ancient and maternal.

* * *

I'm pacing the floor with Ponyboy. His face is red from his fit and his little arms break from the blanket I failed at swaddling them in. His hands are in fists and reach wildly at the air, and I feel sorry for him, fighting for all the comforts that he's been used to receiving only a few days ago, in the safety of Maggie's womb. And he needs her now. And so do I.

 _"Boys, they're here," I overhear Nora telling Sodapop and Darry as we slowly make our way up the porch. Soda bursts through the screen door and I have to intercept him before he tackles Maggie, who's walking very carefully, her body still sore. We make it in, and after Maggie stiffly hugs both boys, she says she's not feeling well and hands Pony to me, heading for the bedroom._

 _"Where's the other one?" Darry asks innocently and I know Maggie hears, but she keeps walking, and I can almost see her body crumbling in on itself._

 _"There's only gonna be one baby now," I tell him, and it's enough to satisfy, cause they're so wrapped up in oohing and aahing over their new and perfect baby brother. They each take turns holding him in their laps and I take pictures. And Nora takes one of the four of us all together on the couch, Maggie noticeably missing. I swallow down the grief and the worry as I answer all their excited questions._

 _"I love his name," Darry decides and Soda agrees._

He really is beautiful. Perfect eyes, lips, nose. I've fallen in love, just as I have with all my boys. And this day that I've spent bonding with him has healed me, not entirely, but in so many ways. I know it'll be the same for Maggie. When she can get to the point to let him in. I set Pony back in his crib and go to heat up a bottle, but I find myself heading in the opposite direction of the kitchen. I want to try with Maggie one more time.

She's choking on sobs when I enter and I go to bend down by her side of the bed, take her hands and try and tell her we're gonna make it through this. She frantically sits up and I'm startled she's even moving, since she's been still all day.

Her eyes are spilling their tears but her words are firm and forceful, though roughly whispered. "Promise me we'll never tell Ponyboy this happened. Promise me Darrel. You have to. And that you'll make Darry swear to never speak of this to him when he grows up."

I'm shocked by her request. It feels wrong to me, turns my stomach. But she's the mother. And she's bordering on hysteria. And she needs this promise desperately. So I nod my head and against my gut, I find myself agreeing to make a six year old carry something this big to his grave.

Pony's sobs grow louder, to the point he's losing his voice and I stand up to get him, but I beg Maggie, plead with her. "Ponyboy needs you, Maggie. He's crying for you." I somehow sense I'm reaching her. And her head is finally nodding, though I don't even think she realizes it. "He needs you," I repeat, and then I notice the wet spots on her shirt, where her milk is soaking through. "You need him too, see."

And she looks down and sees it for herself. She can't deny this bond now as her body's responding to the cries of her baby.

I bring Ponyboy to her, still flailing, screaming himself raw, and Maggie already has her shirt opened and is reaching for him. And I can feel the entire world settling when Ponyboy latches on, and I can no longer tell where she ends and he begins.

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton


	3. Chapter 3

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Three_

She's never been quite the same. For Darry and Soda, she's made her way back to being her loving, motherly self, thank God. For everyone on the outside, she's made a recovery and returned to normal. But not for me.

If I had a dollar for every time I held her eyes and told her, "Nothing bad's gonna happen to us, Maggie," I'd be a rich man. But she can't shake this feeling in her bones, and whenever my soothing words happen to hold the magic that bring her back to me, I know it's all gonna start up again tomorrow. The constant worry over Ponyboy, this obsessive overprotection, the fear of a punishing God.

And in the moments she's rational, she assures me it's probably just them baby blues she read about somewhere. That it won't last much longer. I hold on to that, but in the meantime, I feel like I'm fighting a battle blind and unarmed, and I'm still trying to hold my own against this ghost that's got my fun spirited, cute little barefoot girl so spooked.

When I reach out in the night to find her gone, I know already where she is, what she's doing bent over Pony's cradle. Her hand sits lightly on his chest, just to make sure she feels the rise of it. Her other hand hovers just above his mouth and nose, to make certain his breath comes rhythmic and easy. "C'mon back to bed Maggie, there ain't nothin' wrong with that baby."

She slides back in her cold side of our bed, but not cause I told her to. She only comes back to me because her compulsive worry was satisfied for this moment, when she checked to see that Ponyboy's alive. But what matters is she's back beside me and I hold her close, finding comfort in my wife that can't seem to find comfort in me.

I want what we've always had.

 ** _Two Years Later_**

"I'm in the bathroom!" I call out harsher than I'd like to. The pounding of the door stops for a second, and then I hear the sound of loud breathing projecting through the narrow crack between the door and its frame. Rolling my eyes I wonder what it's like anymore to go to the bathroom in peace.

"Momma, can you hear me?" Soda asks in a voice far louder than it needs to be and the doorknob starts rattling. Just then I see the room's invaded by Pony's small fingers slipping in from underneath the door as I finish up and wash my hands. I make the mistake of catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I'm reminded I haven't brushed my hair out today, or changed since lunch. The remnants of Pony's applesauce is spread across my chest from where he used me as his napkin.

I swing open the door to find my two youngest looking up at me, Pony sprawled out on his stomach on the floor of the hallway and Soda standing, hands on hips, gearing up to tell me the latest crime Darry must've committed. I try and count out how many weeks till school starts.

They both follow me to the kitchen, Soda talking a mile a minute, explaining how Darry knocked him away from the TV, his hands off in all directions expressing his emotions as much as his face does. When I start shuffling through the drawers, not giving Soda the reaction he wants, he adds the fact that Darry was awfully rude to Ponyboy too, hoping this will be enough to convince me they've both been wronged by their big brother. I find my pack of cigarettes and I'm off to search for Darrel's lighter. Pony never says a word, trailing the both of us, taking everything in, just like he always does.

I'm in the bedroom going through dresser drawers and finally find a matchbook in one of Darrel's jean pockets in the laundry basket. I just want Soda to stop moving that wild mouth of his, so I call firmly, "Darry, get in here right now."

He knew it was only a matter of time and I hear him dragging his feet down the hallway and to my room, not stepping all the way in.

"Yes ma'am?" He's playing his cards right with that, and I ask for his side of the story. He lays it out as he always does, methodically and to the point. Giving the play by play, leaving everything out but the facts. At only eight, I already depend on him to give it to me straight. I trust him. With far too many things.

My inner judge doles out her verdict, if tiredly. "Soda, you can't just block the tv when you don't like the show someone's already watching. And Darry, don't hit your brother." They stand there, neither of them winners, Darry's hands jammed in his pockets wanting this to be over and Soda still carrying on.

"And what about Ponyboy? Darry can't talk to Pony like he did," Soda reminds me. Oh, I forgot about Pony. I see he's off wrapping himself up in my curtains. I warn him for the third time today he better stop doing that before he pulls the whole damn thing down on top of himself. He spins in circles to twirl himself out, and he's left dizzy and stumbling.

"Mom," Darry whines, "All I said was 'move it squirt.' Is that a crime?" I want to both laugh and cry at Darry, his gorgeous face always so tangled up in frustration, because I realize I'm clenching my jaw in the exact same way. We're both fed up with trying to survive these long summer afternoons of their back and forth battles.

But I can't just always line up on his side. I'm the mother. So I tell him, "Yes Darry, it's a crime in this house to call someone names, especially Ponyboy who can't defend himself." I can tell he's missing the sympathetic look I'm trying to pair with my scolding.

Pony just stands there, still off balance from spinning, awkwardly leaning a little to the left, his thumb in his mouth, and staring at us all with big green eyes, too young to care about the drama. But Soda's satisfied with the outcome now that Darry's been reprimanded, and I see him give his big brother a gloating grin. Soda, my child who one minute only wants to give out hugs and the next minute can't help but stir the pot, so easily bored and plagued with the constant craving of all that boiling heat.

"Wipe that smirk off your face Soda or you'll find yourself a spot in the corner," I threaten, and I watch Soda suck in his cheeks like a fish, taking me literally as he brings his hand to physically wipe at his mouth, trying his hardest to rein in his grin. Asking Soda to stop smiling is asking the impossible and I know it's a little unfair to expect of my expressive boy.

But I don't take too long to feel bad about it. It's only one o'clock on a hot August afternoon, and I need to hang on several more hours for Darrel to come home and save me before I disappear inside myself and all my dark. "Boys, watch Ponyboy and I don't wanna hear a peep out of y'all," and I'm out the screen door before they can even say Momma.

It doesn't matter it feels like the devil's kitchen out on this steamy porch. I curl up on the swing and light my smoke between anxious fingers, suck in the nicotine that spreads like a bath over frayed nerves. I say a silent prayer the boys will listen this time and not come hunt me down, begging for popsicles or all my attention. And I immediately chide myself for having such a request. I make a mental note to pray extra hard for forgiveness tonight. And I suck harder on the cigarette when my heart speeds up, all my annoyances replaced completely by the crippling fear of knowing how easily God can take them away. I want to slap myself for complaining about something as precious as my children.

I can hear the boys are fighting through the screen.

 _I can hear them fighting through the screen where I sit on my porch, smoothing my skirt, rubbing its cloth between two fingers. Darrel told me to wait here while he talks to Daddy. "I'll handle him," he said and I've no doubt he will._

 _I wince when I hear their voices escalate. When I hear Daddy's hateful words rain down on the boy I love. It doesn't feel much better when Darrel's respectful tones give way to aggression, and he tells the man who raised me, my own flesh and blood, "Well, she's mine now. She ain't yours to knock around no more."_

 _And I watch him walk right out to the porch, walk right through all of that venom my Daddy's spewing at him, that Darrel ain't worth shit, that he'll never amount to nothing, that I'm throwing my life, my eternal salvation away for poor, white trash, that we're both on our way to Hell and so is our unborn, bastard baby._ _And Darrel walks toward me with his powerful confidence, unscathed, untouched, and takes my hand in his, my suitcase in the other and looks deep in my eyes, and smiles, throwing me the only lifeline I'll ever need._

 _Even while I stand in the middle of devastation as my childhood gasps on its dying breath. Somehow I know we're gonna be okay._

But that was then. And now I know life isn't some fairy tale. That children die and sinners can be marked, their families cursed. I guess you can take a girl out of her home, but not the home out of the girl, and all that I've been taught still sits like oozing lava in the pit of my soul. Darrel knows how I sit in front of my crucifix and pray the Rosary, hoping all the Hail Marys I can give might make up for both of our misdeeds. But he doesn't know the extent, the time on my knees, cause I quit telling him when I saw the look on his face. Like his wife's gone off the deep end.

And I can't lose Darrel Curtis. _She's mine_ he told my father that night. And I've always found comfort in his declaration. I was found once I let Darrel take me for himself, and I don't want to belong to anyone else. He's the only thing keeping me alive, even while he's the very thing that damned us all.

My blood goes cold when Pony ambles out to the porch, because I can't stop thinking how I couldn't go on if something happened to him. He holds his arms up and I sweep him into my lap, holding tight with a powerful, awful, fearful love. I squeeze him and my eyes shut against the storm, and try to get my mind off of the train that's thundering nearby, blasting out its power to run over Ponyboy if he ever found his way too close to the tracks. I feel dizzy with the countless things that could go so wrong, and it's going to be too long before Darrel comes home and talks me down, and I need help right now.

I throw Ponyboy on my hip and head in for the only relief available this endless afternoon. I balance Pony and manage to pour out a glass of Darrel's whiskey.

* * *

I've come home to a storm that is Maggie Curtis. I hate myself for ever giving her that first glass of whiskey, only meant to calm her on a particularly hard day, never meant to use as medicine. And I can't believe this is my Maggie. But tonight, I assure myself, it stops.

She's in only a slip, one of her straps has fallen down her shoulder, revealing the bra that's underneath. Her cheeks are flushed, and her words are slurred. She managed through dinner and bedtime, but now that it's just the two of us in the living room, she's pouring another and I take her glass and she doesn't take kindly to the harsh way I rip it from her hand.

My voice remains calm but firm. "I don't want you doing this no more. I won't have it." And her eyes narrow in on me, and I can't help but see her daddy in them.

"You ain't the boss of me Darrel Curtis," she says in a voice I hardly recognize, and she's itching for a fight and knows how to push every button I've got. Doesn't help I'm exhausted from work and from her bullshit. And I can't have her doing this, not in front of the boys.

"Maggie, don't do this with the boys right down the hall," I plead as her voice is getting louder, as she's going off on some hysterical tangent. Bringing up all the ways I've fucked up in the past, taking all the anger she has for her father out on me. "It's your Daddy you're mad at, Maggie," I remind her. "I ain't the one who did them things to you."

This doesn't sit well with her cause maybe I'm making sense, and she starts blaming me for damning her. For not doing everything the right way. For taking her innocence. For being a heathen. For putting us out of God's favor, and I don't point out our three beautiful children were the result of this wrong way she speaks about.

She's so drunk I should just let it go in one ear and out the other. But I'm the one who corrupted her. I've gotta finish what I started. I love her too much to let her fall to this.

Any sliver of remaining peace is shattered, and tonight our house becomes just like all the other crappy houses in this neighborhood when I go for her jugular. "You better not keep this up or I'll take the boys away from you, Maggie. I won't have them being raised by some crazy ass drunk."

She's so mad I can see her shaking where she stands. I just threatened her with her babies, so I'm not surprised she's starting towards me, like a fired up bull ready to rip me to shreds. And the slap she fires across my face stings, and this is my breaking point. I'm dangerously close to losing it all over her, and I'm not proud when I grab her arms and try to shake her out of all her fury. I easily shove her on the couch and hold her down while she kicks at me and tries to claw my face and I never hit her, but God do I want to.

She's not calming down and it feels way too easy to drag her back up, my mind too fogged with anger to care whose little eyes are peeking to watch when I force her down the hall. She's fighting me the whole way into the bathroom and I roughly grab her waist and pick her up and swing her into the tub, force her down while I turn the knob to cold and let the freezing shower become the million slaps all over her body that I refuse to give. "Pull your shit together and cool off," I say hatefully through clenched teeth and she's finally shut that mouth, shocked by the assault from the icy spray.

I leave her in the bathroom to check on the kids and I'm sick to find them standing there, horrified. Soda's got his hands over his ears and Darry's weighted stare looks to me for answers. Pony's wailing in the other room and I say, "Darry, I need you to take care of Ponyboy for me alright," and he's glad for something to do. But he walks off with heavy shoulders, my boy who holds too much.

"Momma needed a cold shower," I tell Soda who finally takes his hands away from his ears. "Run along to bed now," and I'm mad at myself that's the best I can give him.

I return to Maggie, she's calmed so I turn off the water. I kneel beside her, lying there weak, like all the life in her body's escaped down the drain of this bathtub.

She rolls her head slowly to the side to look up at me, and I see she's realizing this low place we're finding ourselves in, and her face scrunches up in pain and silent sobs. "I'm so sorry," she chokes out and she doesn't even need to say it. All is forgiven.

I wipe her wet hair off her forehead. Her mascara is smudged down her face and she's still devastatingly beautiful. "Don't leave me Darrel," she whispers. "Am I still yours?"

"Shh, you're all mine, " I assure her. "Nobody else can have you."

And I feel her body relax at the words I've said to her since the beginning of us, and the whiskey is drawing her eyes closed, as she's on her way to passing out. "It's okay, it's all over," and I don't need to look behind to know Soda's watching this all from the doorway, and I'm too tired to even begin to worry about how deep those scars are gonna run.

"It's okay, it's all over," I repeat this time to him, standing up and blocking his view of Maggie.

Soda asks with hope in his voice, "Did Momma get all clean?"

"Your Momma's always been clean," I tell him and guide him back to his room.

I make sure all doors are closed before I go back and get Maggie. I can't afford for the boys to see their mother passed out and slung over my shoulder like this, and I make my way down the hall, feeling like the poor white trash her father accused me of being, as her thin arms I've bruised are limp and dangling down my back.

And I don't miss the click of another door being closed down the hall as I carry my wife across the threshold.

 **A/N:** The Outsiders by SE Hinton


	4. Chapter 4

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Four_

 ** _one year later_**

"Mom, it's hot. Mrs. Greene's lettin' Jack go. Please ma," Darry begs me from the hallway.

My head's too thick to argue like this but I can't give into him. I silently curse the invading sliver of sunlight that's found it's way past closed curtains and summer's working against me. I wish for winter, when nobody wants to go outside.

I use every muscle I have to turn in my sheets, lying now on my side to face him standing in the doorway. "C'mere Darry," I say without any force. And I watch his eyes sink to the floor before he walks slowly over to my bed. He knows where this is going.

My voice sounds hoarse when I ask him, "Haven't we gone over this Darry?"

His "yes ma'am" holds more than the disappointment of not being able to go swimming; it's tangled up with all his disappointments in me. I extend my limp arm, stretching my hand for his, but he won't take it. I didn't expect him to.

I watch him study his bare feet. "Then tell Momma why I don't want you swimming in that water." I want to know he understands it's for his own good.

Softly and downtrodden, Darry recites back why I keep him from all the swimming holes and even the pool. "Cause you don't want me gettin' the Polio."

I nod and cringe at the word, the disease that could take them all if one of us missed a simple hand washing. Suddenly my mind, once sluggish, starts taking off and I'm trapped as it runs away with me. Maybe the word should never have touched my little boy's mouth. We shouldn't even whisper such things that might draw up attention from the Fates. Oh why did I make him say it? I hope Darry can't hear me breathing fast. I close my eyes and fire up a quick Hail Mary, hoping to cancel out the damage we've done.

When I open my eyes Darry's already walking away. "Watch after Ponyboy. Don't let your brothers leave this house," I call after him.

He doesn't answer. I didn't expect him to.

* * *

She seemed in better spirits when I kissed her goodbye today. She was actually out of bed, even making French toast with Sodapop up on the counter. There may've been a trace of something, a taste on her lips that spilled her secret of a quick nip or two, but she ain't been real drunk lately, not since she had that little fender bender with the grocery cart in the Winn Dixie parking lot in June. Now I'm just happy when she makes her way out of the bedroom, and this morning I'm pretty sure I saw a glimmer of light in her eyes that's been missing.

It's already a scorcher high up on this roof and it's not even quarter past nine, but hope has lightened my hammer and I'm swinging it easy today. I even laugh at one of Dan Braden's corny jokes, and I can't stand that son of a bitch.

I'm lost in thought now as I work, my mind on a possible camping trip this weekend. It'd be good to take the family out of the city, head for the cooler country air. And Maggie finally seems up to it. Or maybe she'd rather take a real trip. Stay in one of them fancy roadside motels on Route 66. She's always wanted the boys to stay overnight at a motel and I've saved up some money.

I suck in air between my teeth, hissing when the hammer hits my finger, now throbbing. Par for the course in this roofing life, I think, as I watch some buzzards circling overhead.

* * *

"The fog truck's comin'. I hear the fog truck!"

I race through the cluttered house to look for my shoes and Soda's on my heels, and for once Mom isn't stopping us from joining all the neighborhood kids who climb on their bikes and follow the fog truck like he's the ice cream man. There's no time for Soda's shoes as I bang through the screen door and ignore Mom's pleas to watch after him. Pony's crying cause he wants to go too, but he's so little we'd probably lose him in the blast of fog that covers everything around us like a fluffy white cloud.

I find my bike under the porch foundation, and run it out, giving Soda a couple of seconds to climb on the back and Mom's trying to tell a wailing Ponyboy he'll get to see the fog too cause they'll stand out in the yard and wait for it. She wants us all to get good and covered with the DDT cause it's killing all them bugs that spread those diseases she keeps worrying about.

Soda sits back and holds my belt loops while I stand and pump the pedals. It's harder to get going when you've got dead weight in the back. But I'm strong and I manage to reach the perfect rate of speed we need for us to meet the truck up by the lot where it rounds the corner. The air is filled with the sounds of a rumbling diesel motor and kids hollering back and forth, ready for this excitement on an otherwise hot and boring evening.

"Faster Darry," Soda keeps urging and slapping me on the back like I'm his racehorse, forever wanting more.

We make it to the truck and are covered in it's wake, lost in the blasts of repellant, our friends disappearing even while they're riding alongside us. Soda loves to breathe it all in and uses his two fingers to pretend he's holding a cigarette, blowing out the wispy trails of pesticide smoke. With nothing but our shorts on, I can almost feel my skin dropping ten degrees cooler as we bike up and down all the area streets, passing by the grownups who stand in yards waving at the kids' parade, and the men on the truck wave back smiling, happy to be the heroes bringing all the adults some sense of relief.

We've circled back around to our street, the last one to be sprayed and this is where our journey ends. For a moment it seems our little white house has vanished, and I don't like that feeling, even though I know it isn't true. The smoke starts clearing and I hear Mom and Pony before the house returns solidly to view. The fog carries their laughter as it bounces around the atmosphere, sounding close and then so far, echoing off the houses and down the street to meet us.

Pony's running around happy in all the clouds, and I speed up, one last gust of power to bring us home, and I slam back on braking pedals and turn the handlebars sharp, causing our bike to slide in sideways, gravel flying, the tuff way to make an entrance. Soda grabs my waist to hang on, but appreciates our wild return, although he sighs cause the trip is over and the truck has left us now with nothing to do. Soda can't stand the end of things.

Night is starting to take over and Mom, leading Pony by the hand, calls out, "Come on inside boys, 'fore you get snatched up, ya hear." We're slow to follow her in, having been inside all day, then getting this one shot of freedom.

I put my hand on one of Soda's slumped shoulders and tell him, "Don't worry. The fog man'll be back in a few nights."

* * *

Slapping windshield wipers are having a hard time keeping up with this monsoon, and I'm bent over the wheel squinting to see the dark highway. All three boys are crammed in the front seat beside me, Pony standing up in the middle of us, Soda sitting up forward leaning over the dash and Darry smashed against the car door, mad our camping trip got rained out at the last minute. He's still helping me though, eyes glued out his passenger window looking for a vacancy sign. "There's one," he says, quick on the draw.

We pull up beside the lobby doors, and it looks pretty good and cheap. Sign says kids stay free, televisions in all the rooms. "I'm gonna go check in, y'all wait here." I turn off the car and take the keys, still not trusting that middle boy of mine. I race through the raindrops and wish Maggie was with us.

We park right outside our room, and I tell the boys they don't need to bring in their camping equipment. Sodapop insists we bring the lantern though and Pony wants his sleeping bag, so we end up bringing in most of the stuff anyway, and the kids can't control their excitement as I work the lock with the key. They fling themselves on the king size bed, the only kind of rooms they had left, and I turn on the lights and notice the sparse room smells like stale cigarettes and mold, but the boys don't seem to mind. Darry and Soda are fighting over the ice bucket and I tell them they can both go get the ice, even though we've got nothing to ice down but an empty cooler meant for the promise of caught fish.

With the boys out hunting for the ice and vending machines, Ponyboy, in his rain coat with the hood still up, starts looking at me with his sad eyes and I know what's coming. "I want Momma," he says, and I flip on the tv hoping that'll distract him.

"We'll see Momma bright and early tomorrow. She just needed a little time to herself," I say, knowing it won't make a difference.

Even with the older boys' bickering, I'm relieved when they return and Pony finally seems content to watch the ruckus his brothers make when they pour the ice in the cooler. Of course, both Darry and Soda have to be the one to do it, struggling over who's holding the bucket, all four of their hands intertwined and grasping the small bucket, locked in like it's the task of the century, both of them telling the other how it's done.

After several trips to the ice maker, and after our dinner of peanut butter crackers and sharing a Dr. Pepper from the vending machines, we turn in, all four of us piled in one big bed. "It's kinda like we're campin'," Soda says after the lights are out and all we can hear is the noisy highway and our peanut butter breaths.

"No it ain't like we're campin' at all," Darry roughly says back. So far the motel night is kind of a disappointment. "We can't see no stars, we ain't caught no fish, no fire to sit around, Dad ain't playin' his harmonica, and we can't hear the lonely coyote callin' out to us in the night."

My chest feels warm to hear him list the things he loves about our trips, but I appreciate Soda's bright side. "Well, it _is_ kinda like we're sleepin' in a tent, ain't that right Sodapop?" I feel his head beside me nodding in agreement.

"I want Momma," Pony starts up again.

"Why didn't she come?" Soda asks softly.

"Cause she's busy doing Mom stuff," Darry answers before I can. I always wonder how much he knows.

"Like what?" Soda won't let it go. I hear Pony going to town on that thumb, which means he'll fall asleep soon, thank goodness.

"Sometimes ladies just need time to themselves," I try and explain, and the general mystery of females is always answer enough for them.

Sleep is having her way now, boys are dropping off right and left. I turn left, then right, then end up on my back, trying to find a comfortable space. My heart hurts though. Even with three bodies draped around and across me, I imagine myself crying out like that lonely coyote.

* * *

Dad's radio blares from his shed where he's sanding down a wooden desk he wants to paint. I'm calling out tips to Soda who's trying to perfect his layups, but his ball ends up everywhere but the basket. Pony's sitting beside me on the back steps of the kitchen door, enjoying a popsicle, the juice running all over him. I try to scoot away so he doesn't touch me. I hate being sticky.

Soda throws his ball against the house in frustration and I try to shush him. It's Sunday and Mom's still in bed. "Soda half your battle is your temper," I tell him, repeating a line from Dad he uses whenever Soda quits something he's not good at. He stalks off to the front yard to lick his wounds.

Left with only my youngest brother, I look over at him and shake my head, thinking he needs a good hose down. I guess he thinks I wanna talk cause he starts up with his billion questions. "If you could be any animal in the world what would you be Darry?"

I can't believe I'm actually putting thought into it, and I answer "A lion. He's king of the jungle."

"I'd be an eagle, so I could fly," he tells me, though I didn't really ask.

"Are Jack and Joe Greene twins?" Pony asks about my friends down the street.

"Yeah, can't you tell? They look exactly alike." I lean forward, elbows on my scabbed knees, half listening, half thinking about school starting up again, hoping Jack's in my class. I don't really like Joe.

"Soda and I are twins," Pony announces and I smile. He's always wanted to be Soda.

"You are not," I say, "Soda's older than you. You gotta be born at the same time to be twins."

"We are so," he says louder, and I know he's ready to launch into some fit, but I'm bored enough to egg it on.

"Ponyboy, y'all can't be twins. It's impossible. You gotta be exactly the same age and share a birthday. If you have a twin, he's gotta be in Mom's tummy at the same ..." my speech is cut short by Mom in the screen door.

"Ponyboy run on and go play. Darry, get in here right now." My heart speeds up cause I know by her tone I've done something wrong. I can't think of anything though, so maybe she's just not feeling well again. Or maybe we were being too loud.

I walk into the kitchen, my eyes adjusting in the dark after the bright sunlight. Before I have time to get my bearings, my mother's hand comes across my face, and the sting it leaves against my left cheek is shocking. I immediately raise my hand up to the heat, my mouth dropped open in disbelief. She's never slapped me, ever. Before I can ask what I've done, she's clawing the neck of my shirt, making me follow her across the kitchen floor.

"I heard you talking about twins," and I can't deny it, I was, but why is that so wrong? This isn't my mother, this woman is absolutely crazy. "We trusted you with one thing, one thing Darry Curtis, and I can't believe you'd stoop so low." Now she's off and crying, but I don't feel bad for her at all, cause she's swatting me all over my body as she's half-dragging me down the hallway to my room.

My mind escapes the scene, but I hear myself saying over and over, "Mom, I didn't do nothin', what'd I do Ma?" and I only know I'm crying by the sound of my voice.

I drop to the floor of my bedroom and cover my head against the assault. Her slaps are frantic but weak, the stings they leave all over my body don't hurt that bad, and yet the pain is overwhelming. Something's invaded my mother. I stare at a lone Lincoln Log that Pony's left out on my floor, and I pray for her to stop. I hear running footsteps, and I look over at eye level to see my old battered sneakers on Soda's feet which suddenly stop, then pivot abruptly and scramble away.

I don't know how much time has passed. I can't see but I feel my father's presence in the room. And he easily lifts my mother away and forces her back to their bedroom. It's over. I stay in the same guarded position, not believing yet what happened. I can tell Soda's still in the room, breathing rapidly after his race to get Dad, and he gently puts his hand on my bent back. "What'd you do Darry?" he asks and I wipe my face before I stand back up.

I feel a thousand years older as the tie to my mother is cut forever. My eyes narrow and my voice is without any emotion, though my words feel like steel through clenched teeth, "I didn't do shit."

* * *

She's calm after the muscle relaxant. But she's a wreck.

By the look on Soda's face I knew he wasn't messing around when he flew in the shed and told me to come quick. I never expected that though.

I forcibly held her down when she was still going after me in our bedroom, our paper thin walls doing nothing to hide the sounds of our life falling apart. She kept yelling that Darry spilled the truth, the secret I asked him to keep.

I was seething as I yelled back, "I never told him Maggie. I knew he'd forget, and he did, till you brought it up." You crazy bitch, I'd like to say. And I hate that I hate her right now.

Maggie coming back to her senses is never good, cause she falls apart even more when she realizes all that she's destroyed. She wanted to apologize to Darry, begged for him, but I told her to give it time. Sober apologies are always better. Now she's taken a muscle relaxant, one of the pills her doctor prescribed after I forced her to see someone, and she's lying in our bed, lost in a sea of despair, with muscles too relaxed they can't swim, only sink.

I'm sick, I can't help her, something's gotta give. Thank God Ponyboy was outside on his tire swing during this episode, but it's only a matter of time before he catches on. Soda just thinks Darry got in really bad trouble, that surely he did something to deserve it. Hell, I spank the kids, but he doesn't need to think the kind of discipline he saw today is normal. Something in him must know it's not, since he ran for help. But now he seems completely unaffected by the scene that played out before him, rationalizing it somehow to keep his mother good.

It's been three years and she's only gotten worse. Her depression, her anxiety, her drinking.

I walk to the boys' room, the door's closed. Soda and Pony are watching tv out on the couch. I open his door and Darry's already in bed. His back is turned to me, he's facing the wall. I'm here to explain something that can never be explained. "Darry," I say timidly, "are you okay?"

He doesn't move a muscle. His words are quick, acidic and to the point. "She didn't hurt me."

I go on. "Mom's not thinking right. She never should've done that to you and..."

He cuts me off so I guess I'll have to explain it tomorrow. "She didn't hurt me." His anger is wrapped around his words like toxic vines. "She didn't hurt me," is all he can repeat.

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton


	5. Chapter 5

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Five_

I walk the dark and lonely house this night like a ghost who haunts. I can't sleep, can't lie still, not when my mind's in overdrive planning the next step. Calculating, plotting behind her back, knowing all the simple solutions have been exhausted and it's time I pull out the big guns.

She woke up in a sweat, whimpering, begging. Pressed against my side clawing at my chest. I've never seen someone in that much hell.

" _Kill me Darrel. Please just kill me," she's quietly pleading with a voice raw and weakened by torment._

" _Shhh..don't say that Maggie. Please darlin'," my whisper cracks, choking on all that pain as I hold her. "I'm gonna getcha better, ya hear me?"_

I sit in a neglected and dirty kitchen and look again at the pamphlet I picked up at my visit to the doctor's. The visit I made alone. Without her. The visit Dr. Sherman recommended we have so we could speak freely about Maggie and the options available. He told me about some hospital over in Oklahoma City. A place where patients undergo more acute, more vigorous types of therapy and can come home fully recovered. But that day I bucked against him.

" _I ain't sending my wife to no insane asylum."_

" _Mr. Curtis, I'm not calling Maggie insane. I'm calling her severely depressed." His voice remains as even and pleasant as his greetings and I don't know if that sits well with me. "Mental institutions are just like hospitals, but for the mind. And today there are very effective treatments being offered. Maggie could be cured in as little as a week or two in a place like that."_

 _My mind is reeling imagining my Maggie in a straight jacket, sitting in a padded cell. I shake my head against the thought and swallow hard. "Treatments huh? I've heard about sick places like that."_

" _I've heard about them too, Darrel. But those asylums of...well, torture are way in the past. I'm talking about modern medicine. There've been so many advancements in psychiatry today." He takes his glasses off, and leans forward on his elbows, like he's really looking at me underneath those bushy white eyebrows. "I assure you I'd never recommend an abusive environment to any of my patients. And if Maggie stayed only a little while and had maybe a handful of electro-shock therapy sessions, I think you'd see great improvements. It's found to be very beneficial for depression, especially women suffering from severe postpartum disorder."_

 _"Strapped down and shocked? Electricity? Nope, thanks Doc but that ain't for us." I stand to leave, I'm sure five shades paler than when I walked in._

" _It's not as severe as it sounds," Sherman says and I can't believe I haven't yet walked out that door. I'm stuck in the same spot, waiting to hear him out. "Some patients don't even have a recollection of the sessions and they walk out wondering why they were depressed in the first place. Perhaps you're not at that point with Maggie yet, but just consider it as an option. It'd be a one shot cure all, save her years of therapy she may not even respond to, not to mention save you a lot of money in the long run. Just look this over and call me if you have questions or want to set something up." He stands now too, extending a hand._

" _Thank you Dr. Sherman. I'm sure the medication'll get the job done just fine. I'm already seein' a little spark in those eyes of hers." I reach across the desk and notice his smile has a trace of pity sitting on it._

" _That's good news then Darrel. Great news in fact. I do hope you're right." His handshake is firm._

Have we reached that point with Maggie? Is this really where we are? I'm desperate now, eyes closed as I lean back against the chair, its wood pressing cool against my bare skin, and I run my hands across my chest where Maggie's nails dug in.

She asked me to kill her. _Please just kill me..._ her tortured words still float on stagnant air.

But how could I even begin to drive her there and leave her against her will? As her husband all it takes is my signature and she's forced to stay. Even if she got better, how could she ever begin to forgive me? But this isn't about me. This is about getting my wife better. And isn't that my job as her husband?

I've always been strong. I've never backed away from a fight, I survived a childhood of poverty, I've fought off everything from death to life's real monsters and didn't even blink. But from the day I set eyes on my girl, Maggie Castineaux has always been my weakness. No other person could so easily strip me of my strength and show me what true fear and pain really are.

I carefully fold up the paper and slip it into my tool box behind the wrenches. I check on the boys, each one sleeping in their own distinct positions. Ponyboy curled in a ball, Soda out of the blankets and sprawled sideways, and Darry on his back, arms thrown above his head. An unbearable ache slithers inside when I look at him.

But that ache turns hard, like bone, and I feel a stirring in my gut, and the Boxer's finally waking up. Maggie may leave me weak, but I'm a natural born fighter ain't I? And nothing on this Earth could make me fight harder than Pony, Soda and Darry Curtis. I'll do whatever it takes to save their momma. Even if it means hogtying her to the car and wrestling her all the way into the doctors' hands. I ain't afraid to get dirty. I work best in the mud and slop if that's what it comes down to. Cause losing ain't no option.

* * *

"That all you want hon? You don't want no burger or nothin'?" I ask Darry when the waitress leaves with our order.

"Naw, I'm not that hungry," he answers, his eyes darting everywhere like he's a trapped animal sitting here in this red booth with me, when all I wanted to do was buy him a nice lunch. Anything to lessen the blows of this awful conversation that waits for us like the gallows.

I may have ordered the Lunch Plate Special, but I give him a little smile and fess up, "I ain't all that hungry neither."

I tap my cigarette pack on the table and slide out a smoke, place it in the corner of my mouth and search my back pocket, watching Darry squirming in his seat. I'm still eyeing him when I strike my match against my belt buckle and I can't believe how big he's getting. I figure I won't leave him waiting any longer. I take a long smooth drag as I wave out the fiery match, and the "order up" bell gets slapped from the kitchen window. Three impatient dings ring out to start the round.

"Darry, we need to talk 'bout your Ma"...

Not once does he look at me while I try and explain to a nine year old why his mother tore him apart. He just continues to swirl his spoon through the vanilla pudding he ordered and gives me nothing. But I keep on explaining. About her sickness that isn't in her body but in her mind. Doesn't even flinch when I talk about Pony's twin we lost. Just when I'm starting to wonder if he's tuned me out entirely, I mention that Ma's going away for a little while to get better, and Darry's steel blue eyes suddenly jump from his dish and lock in with mine.

"Really?" he breathes. "How long she gonna be gone?"

"Long as it takes."

All of a sudden he reaches over and plucks one of the greasy fries off my plate and pops it in his mouth. And he keeps on popping one after another, dragging them through ketchup while he listens to me tell him there's hope.

xXx

The truck's on idle in the driveway and I won't let Darry go in just yet. I grab his arm before he even goes for the handle. "Hey, I need you to watch the boys for me tomorrow. Think you can handle that?"

His face turns to me from the passenger window and I notice hurt in his eyes. "That's what I been doin' this whole time Dad." My stomach sinks. He thinks I haven't noticed.

"That came out wrong Darry. I know all you been doin'," I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze, "and I appreciate it. We couldn't get along this summer without you takin' care of your brothers. I'm proud of you little man." He nods but doesn't smile.

I think back to what I was doing at his age and shit, compared to my childhood, Darry's living the dream. But it still doesn't ease my guilt I feel for laying all this on him.

I stare straight ahead, the atmosphere bends in hypnotic waves from the heat of the engine, and I remember. All the hard years when Dad moved us to New Orleans looking for any kind of work. For scraps. For some reason I picture myself as Darry when I look back.

"Ya know we're a lot alike you 'n me. I had to man up at a young age too. 'Fore we come up through Baton Rouge I was hustlin' for money on them dirty streets of N'Awlins. I was even younger than you are now, just knee high to a grasshopper." I turn to look at him now, and I wonder why I'm smiling about some of my cruelest years. "Lord I played that harmonica up 'n down the Quarter just tryin' to sell more papers. And I flat ran every corner, cause you know what? I was a pretty damn good player. Helped I was cute as hell too." Finally he smiles while mine slowly fades. "I'm sorry Darry. I always wanted you to stay young for far longer than I did."

"S'okay Dad. I still feel young." His hand sweetly grasps my forearm, wrapping around the tattoo I got when he was born. I take in a breath and tell him my plan.

"Darry, I'm gonna put Ponyboy in your bed tonight to sleep in y'all's room." I know he knows how serious this is cause he doesn't even roll his eyes at that. "Mom and I are leavin' 'fore dawn, so we'll be gone by the time you guys wake up." I don't tell him why I'm choosing this way, so that Maggie won't be tempted to stay, not wanting to leave her babies, especially a crying Ponyboy.

"Just tell the boys I'm drivin' Mom to visit some long lost aunt," and I'm making this up as I go.

"Oh, you mean old Aunt Mabel?" I look at Darry and start to wonder if we really do have a Mabel somewhere down our line. His grin is sly. Damn that boy's good.

"I'll be back by late afternoon, so not too long. I'll call you from the road and check in time 'n again." With each of Darry's nods, I feel more and more confident that maybe this'll work. Maybe I can really do this. Maybe she'll want to go. Maybe she's been waiting for me to take her, to save her. But I know that's wishful thinking. God only knows how tomorrow will play out. Which is why I have to plan for the worst. For the dragging and screaming. For the ugly. I put both my hands on Darry's shoulders and look at him like my life depends on this.

"Darry, please honey, whatever you hear tomorrow, promise me, _swear_ to me and God above you won't come outta that room."

* * *

I never knew how loud the quiet is. Or how many times Soda turns over and flops around in a night. I stare at his bunk every time those mattress coils squeak and I start to wonder if the wooden frame that holds his bed above mine is gonna fail someday. I haven't slept and I'm miserable next to Pony who's dug into my side, and when he's not loudly sucking, his gross spit-soaked thumb keeps touching my face and neck. But I'm just trying to tune all this out.

Cause I'm listening for it. I'm waiting. I'm on edge wondering when it's gonna happen. What's gonna happen.

 _Please don't let it be too loud, please God make her be quiet._

The more I think about it, the more my stomach hurts. I try and think of something else. In the glow of the bumblebee nightlight that Pony brought with him, I stare at Soda's hand that hangs down from his bed. I see his bandaid that covers Ponyboy's bite from last week. I can tell it's the same bandaid, dirty and furling around the edges, showing a grimy outline. Mom's thankfully stopped with her brutal hand washing tirades, but I don't know if this feels much better. She's quit caring if we're even clean at all. Maybe we'll play in the hose today.

I hear a bump. Is this it? Do I hear a heated conversation? My ears are playing tricks on me cause the clock says only two. Dawn's a long long way away.

I pray that Soda and Pony don't wake up. Then when the sun's shining I can just tell them Mom's off on a pleasant visit with good ole Aunt Mabel. And only Ponyboy will cry, but that's okay cause he cries for just a little while when Mom's not in his sight. And then Mom'll come back and we'll be a normal family.

Normal. Maybe I ask for too much. I'd settle for running free outside on summer afternoons, for not always having to take up the slack in this house, for a mom I recognize and who recognizes me back, for a hallway cleared of people getting dragged down it. Will it happen again in a couple of hours? I think back to the night we watched Dad drag Mom violently to the bathroom. I wince when I think of the other day, the same long hall, how she slapped me the entire way to my room.

My eyes are getting heavy. _I just want us to be normal._ My room grows dimmer each second and eyelashes begin to close in. I'm fading. _Just a normal family...of ordinary people...just...people.._

"Darry?" My eyes shoot open and my breath sucks in. Where am I? What time is it? "Darry, I have to go pee." Pony's shaking my shoulder, whining.

I wipe my drool and squint at the clock I can barely see, remembering I still haven't told Dad how everything looks fuzzy these days and Mrs. Hammons had to move me to the front so I can see the chalkboard. I pull the clock closer and make out 4:13. Now Pony's poking me in the ribs. "Darry, I gotta go potty." Oh fuck. Of course he does now. Four's close to dawn ain't it? And he said they'd leave before dawn. But I'm not about to let Pony wet this bed with me in it.

"C'mon and make it quick," I tell him, jerking him out of the bed by his arm. "Shh, and tiptoe," I whisper as I open up my door slowly to make sure the coast is clear.

I hold his hand down the hallway trying to move him faster, and put my finger to my lips when he tries to tell me to look at his shirt. He made me give him one of mine to wear to bed last night, a big boy shirt for the big boy room, and it's draped over him like a damn nightgown.

I turn on the bathroom light and go in with him, closing the door behind us to contain the harsh glare. "Now do your business and hurry up," I instruct him without any kind of patience, pushing him forward to the toilet. He stumbles a little but doesn't complain and lifts up the seat and drops his drawers.

"Darry help me," he says, having a hard time managing, not able to hold himself to pee while holding onto all that material. I roll my eyes and step behind him, lift the bottom of the gray Cowboys t-shirt and tell him fire away. And it's taking forever. I'm wound so tight I know I'm about to come undone. And every time I think Pony's finished another stream starts up.

We're safe back in bed but my panic is only beginning. I need Ponyboy to get back to sleep before the shit hits the fan. I don't know how much time I have to work with. So I wrap him up beside me and start dragging soft fingers down his arm. I try to will myself calm so it can rub off on him. And it just might be working. His breathing is steady, he's quit moving and his thumb's back in place.

As Pony drifts off, I still hold onto him and wait. My breathing speeds up and I cover my mouth with my hand so it doesn't wake anybody up. My heart pounds in my ears and I listen. And wait. And pray. And breathe. And worry. And lose my mind.

Then I hear the first sign of it. A faraway thump shatters the silent house and feels like it shattered me. I jerk my head towards my door and cringe. Is this it? Has the morning really started? I flinch at another slamming bang. My chest works hard for air.

My God, it's here.

 **A/N:** The Outsiders by SE Hinton


	6. Chapter 6

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Six_

"Maggie, hon." His whisper floats through my dream and picks me up the way he always has. And I rise from sleep to the familiar ache of life. I don't want to wake and I beg him weakly, but his soft lips stop mine from moving and I'm not strong enough to fight. That and I love him. His eyes keep searching me. "We're gonna take us a little trip okay?"

A nod is all I can manage and through sleepy eyelids I watch Darrel pull our suitcase from the top of our messy closet, causing a box of photo albums to tumble all around him, shaking the house with their fall. He leaves them behind where they spilled.

"Where are we going Darrel?" I think to ask him and my voice is sandpaper against my throat. I notice it's only my clothes he happens to be folding and stacking in the suitcase we've hardly ever used.

He stops and moves to the edge of the bed, sitting up close to my misery and takes my hand in his, kissing my pale fingers and finally my palm, which he holds tight against his mouth for a moment, shutting his eyes. I wonder what he sees.

"Is it somewhere pretty? Will the boys like it?" My questions drift across the room and slip out the window, their answers scattering down a dark road.

Darrel's words sound strangled in his throat. "You're gonna spend a little time in the hospital. Them doctors know how to get you well."

"Am I sick?" I hope I die.

"Yeah babe, you're real sick." And his cool, solid hand pressed across my forehead makes me feel safe and maybe for this second, I don't want to leave the world just yet. Maybe Darrel's hands will be enough, and they suddenly scoop me up like it's hardly an effort. I let Darrel take me out of the four walls that I've hidden behind for awhile now.

In the hallway he stops to adjust his hold around me and our suitcase slams hard against the door frame, echoing through this tired house and I start to struggle against his tight arms. "What about the boys Darrel?" A heated panic sweeps through frozen veins. But he quickens his walk and keeps his eyes forward.

"Shh...Darry's watchin' 'em." And he won't let me go back or even turn around. "They'll be just fine for the day, and I'll bring 'em in to see you, maybe tomorrow."

* * *

The lie singes my tongue when I tell her I'll bring the kids tomorrow. But I'm willing to say anything to get her in this car before the boys wake up, and I'm halfway there now. My knees are shaky but refuse to give out on me, they only move faster, lifting Maggie high across the dusty yard baked dry from a relentless summer. I'm kissing the top of her head to calm her and thank God it seems to be working. I breathe in the tangled curls of unwashed hair and I feel her body relax against mine by the time we've made it into the car.

I turn the ignition, my headlights now shining towards the only hope we have and I press the gas to get us there. But my guts have clenched when I catch the scene in my rearview, where I see a wild Pony running down the street in a long t-shirt, chasing after us and crying out to the cruel morning sky. My breath starts coming in sharp and shallow while I watch it all play out, and I won't round the corner till I'm sure that Darry's managed to grab up his little brother to carry him the long walk back home.

* * *

Ponyboy shot out of the house before I knew what was happening, with the fastest legs of any three year old ever. Now I'm racing after him, tripping through our gate, hoping Dad won't see any of this and will just keep driving Mom out of here. It's not long before I'm caught up to my screaming brother, and I don't want to hurt or tackle him, so I run beside him for a second and pick the right moment to smoothly pluck him right out of his run and hold him tight against my chest, pinning limbs so he can't hit or kick me too hard. As Dad's tail lights disappear around the lot I feel somewhat relieved. Even as Pony's throwing his fit of the century and the yellow bulbs of a few rickety porches are starting to flicker on, neighbors coming out to see who's getting abused now in the middle of the street this early in the morning.

As I walk us back home, my bare feet burning after the pavement's slapped them silly, I ignore the stares of our small audience and shush Pony who keeps begging for Mom, and I have to wonder why he even cares she's gone. All she does is sleep anymore and I'm the one this summer who feeds him, dresses him, and tells him what to do, making sure he spits out whatever he sticks in his mouth. "Calm down Ponyboy, she'll be back soon." My whisper is harsh but unheard and I guess maybe he finds comfort just knowing Mom's back in her bedroom. Always there for his naps or his hugs. Crazy what a three year old would see as normal. I stop and wince when I step on a piece of loose gravel, then limp the rest of the way.

Soda's waiting for us, hanging on the swinging gate, not caring the eastern sky is casting a grayish glow now and everyone can fully see him in only his underwear. "Get inside Sodapop. Are you nuts?" But I already know the answer to that.

xXx

Pony's calming down with the popsicle I gave him. Soda's enjoying one too and I find it strange he hasn't even asked yet why Mom and Dad left. We sit on the couch, the three of us in an odd silence since the tv's still off the air at this hour. I lean against the sofa's threadbare arm and fold in on myself, ready to close my eyes that sting from hardly any sleep. "Dad's takin' Mom to visit Aunt Mabel," I yawn out to anyone who might need answers.

"No fair," Soda whines as if he's longed to visit a non-existent Aunt Mabel his entire life.

"No fair," Pony repeats through a mouthful of bright orange ice.

* * *

I sign every paper they thrust in front of me before I can change my mind. They've already taken Maggie off somewhere, promising me I'll be able to see her when she's settled, tell her bye then. How the hell am I gonna manage that?

"So Doc, no straightjackets right? And you'll knock her out to give the shocks?" I've stopped mid-signature to eye him up and down, to be sure he gets my message loud and clear.

Dr. James doesn't even blink his bug eyes at my silent threats and assures me, "That's right Mr. Curtis. We strongly believe in sedating our patients prior to their electric shock therapies. It's less stress on the joints and the bones, protecting against breaks and dislocations and besides that, obviously it's more humane. You have nothing to worry about."

My stomach turns at how intense it all sounds. "I better not, " I say gruffly and point my pen, "or I'll shock the shit out of everyone who works here, keeping all y'all wide awake to watch me press the button." I go back to scratching my name across a hundred lines. I know I need to calm down, especially with this guy. If I get him mad at me he may take it out on Maggie. Not treat her right. But I can't control my aggression and I know it's cause I'm so angry we're in this mess in the first place. I throw down my pen and rub my temples. "I'm sorry," I barely say.

Dr. James must be used to every kind of behavior, cause he simply reaches across the table and slaps my shoulder, accepting my apology. His voice sounds almost light and encouraging. "Let's go see Maggie shall we?" And that's the only thing I want to do.

She's already laid out on the bed in a hospital gown, a needle taped to her arm. "What's that?" I ask the nurse who's busy with Maggie, as if I'd ever understand her answer. But I try to look and sound smart so they don't fuck us over.

"These are just fluids Mr. Curtis," she answers sweetly, almost like she actually cares, "so Maggie can start gaining some strength back. But we've also given her a little something to take the edge off." And this nurse is pleasant and plump like a grandma and I like her. I watch her tucking blankets all around, working to make Maggie more comfortable. Dr. James plops down on a stool and rolls over to her bedside.

"Good morning Maggie. I'm Dr. James." Maggie won't look at him. Her eyes stay fixed on me at the foot of her bed and I'm wondering if she's starting to realize I'm going to leave her here. Dr. James is still trying to make a connection. "Do you know why you're in the hospital today Maggie?" Seems she finally heard him when she starts to weakly turn her head towards the gentle doctor.

"I'm having a baby right?" she asks and for just that second she almost looks happy. My heart dies a little.

Dr. James doesn't miss a beat. "No Maggie, you're here so you can start to feel better." He takes her hand in his and it looks like she might even be listening to him. "We want you to be able to go back to living your life a little happier than you've been living it lately." And when he says that, I feel a couple of exhausted tears spring up, but they go no further than the corners of my eyes. I won't let them drop. Not here.

I swallow hard and silently pray that Dr. James will be able to bring Maggie back to a better existence, like he says he can. And I look at him now like he's the one who holds all our cards. And he does. He's the one man who might be able to save us. And the way he's talking to Maggie, I'm almost starting to believe him.

We're left alone and I use this moment to say goodbye. I'm almost hoping she's nowhere near lucid, but it turns out she sure knows enough to be afraid. She grabs my hand so hard she twists it. "I'm scared Darrel," she says in a voice that's smaller than she is and I think about ripping out her needle and running away with her. "Please don't leave me here," and I do my best to fake a broken smile when all I want to do is punch my fist through a wall.

"I ain't leavin' you here long darlin'. I promise I'm comin' back soon," and I rub my hand up and down her far too skinny arm, "but I gotta go home and take care of those crazy lil cowboys." She now rolls in the opposite direction, refusing to look at me. Mad.

"Get out then." Her words cut me, but this way just might be for the best and I stand up and rest my hand on her bare shoulder that's slipping out of the loosely tied gown. She shrugs me off and it takes all I have to walk away.

Dr. James is waiting for me in the hall and he escorts me back to the lobby, filling me in on the medications and other therapies Maggie will get while she's here, but I'm just trying not to notice the people who are talking to themselves in corners, the group of people confined to wheelchairs who watch tv with dead eyes. Try to block out the scuffle behind the doors at the end of the hallway, the staff surrounding someone who's writhing around on the floor, the doctor running through with a syringe. I feel like throwing up when I glance at a treatment room and see all the torturous looking equipment, and I turn to Dr. James once we walk past the lady who's flapping her hands and screaming to nobody.

"Maggie shouldn't be here," I say, panic finally settling in. I start walking backwards in the direction of my wife. "I'm takin' her home."

He doesn't try to stop me. Just calls after me, "She's in the right place Mr. Curtis, but nobody's going to say you can't take her with you. She's not being forced to stay here." My feet are stuck in place and I find my breath again, the buzzing in my head's finally quieting and I look around at a staff who's being nothing but kind to their patients. Dr. James politely asks me to talk some things over with him in his office. And I trust him enough to do that. Then I'll go back and take my Maggie home.

"We have various types of patients Mr. Curtis," he says once we're seated back at his desk, "and I understand your reaction at having to see some of our more...intense cases." I shake my head and lean back in my chair.

"Intense? I can't leave her with _those_ kinds of people. I'm sorry but they're total lunatics Doc, head cases," and I'm just now noticing my hands have been shaking only when they finally start to stop.

"Obviously Maggie is on a whole different level of functioning and we would treat her as such," he says while he's neatly dropping all those signed papers in a folder labeled _Curtis, Margaret C._ I'm still not convinced. "You did the right thing bringing her here Darrel. Maggie's severely depressed at best, suicidal at worst. She may not be a _lunatic head case,_ but she's far from stable." I cringe at what I already know.

Can I do this? Should I do this? I was so sure about it yesterday and this morning. What's really changed? The fact that there are other people in here worse off than her? Does that really matter? I rub my hands together nervously, breathe into them to get my blood pumping again, my brain firing again to make the right decision. I stare at Dr James. "You promise you won't hurt her?" is the only question it comes down to, the only one I care about.

"I promise," he says firmly, then he looks at me with the most confident eyes I've ever seen. "Tomorrow morning will be the first of four sessions. It's the best option we've got Darrel. We're gonna fight this and get your wife back."

* * *

The screen door bangs behind me. "Soda get in here and bring Pony," I call from the porch. "Y'all help me pick up the den. Dad's gonna be home soon."

I've let those two play outside most of the day in the sprinkler and Pony's probably getting burned by now, Soda's skin simply turning a few shades browner. I even let them shower out there and cleaning was never more fun while I aimed the hose at their wild heads of shampoo suds, washing away a week's worth of grime. I kept looking behind my shoulder though, worried Mom would catch us messing around in the dirty hose water, and I smiled every time I had to remind myself she's gone.

Two more hours pass and I'm starting to get worried. Pony's singing along loudly to Howdy Doody and that means it's almost supper time. I keep getting up to look out the window, willing Dad to get here soon. What if something happened to him? Then what would become of us? With a mom who's lost in crazy town, would I be left to care for my brothers forever? Or would we live in an orphanage and be forced to eat gross things like porridge and sleep under one thin blanket full of holes and bedbugs? Ponyboy wouldn't survive it. And Soda would probably just run away and live on the streets acting blind and begging for people to throw coins in his tin cup. The thoughts alone are enough to make me nauseated, and I jump when Soda slips up from behind, startling me.

"You scared Darry?" Soda asks, his eyes poring over every part of me, and with him, it's impossible to hide all my giveaways, all my tells. I try anyway.

"Nah," I say casually, loosening up my body so I don't look so tense. "I ain't scared. I'm just lookin' out for the first star. That's all."

I'm surprised Soda believes it. "You gonna wish on it?" he asks while Ponyboy's rolling around on the floor laughing his ass off at that Clarabell, the clown I hate. I roll my eyes and wonder what's going to become of him.

"Probably not," I shrug and walk off, cause I quit wishing on things a long time ago. Even birthday candles.

* * *

Of course I'd get a flat, and of course I had to walk to the nearest town to buy a spare, working on their sympathy so they'd accept my final offer, the only money I had on me, and of course that left me without even one damn dime for the damn phone booths. I raced the rest of the way home, and the closer I got, it felt like the boys kept getting further from my reach. It was stupid to get so worked up, screaming at cars who moved too slow. I know by now I can count on Darry to handle things for me. Thank God.

My headlights finally shine on the house, and this morning seems like a hundred years ago. I don't walk, I jog up the sidewalk and take the porch steps in a single bound, fly through the door to set my eyes on the three best things I have in my life. "Daddy!" Soda and Pony scream when I enter and I'm soothed, fixed almost with three big hugs and one messy kiss from Pony's peanut butter mouth. In the excitement I notice Darry slink away to the porch.

"Did Aunt Mabel send us a gift?" Soda asks me, eyes all excited and I grab him in a headlock, mess up his untamed hair even more.

"No she didn't, but she wanted me to tell you that you better behave. Now y'all go get your teeth brushed and I'll be in to check on you." They walk off, Soda shaking his head, disappointed he's got such a cheap, stern aunt and I almost laugh at the look on his face. Laugh? Tonight? Maybe we will survive. I go out to find Darry.

He's standing in the darkest corner, furthest from the porch light. When he looks up, there's no denying the glistening in his eyes, betrayed by reflecting streetlights. But I give him what he wants and act like I don't see them. I look out into the yard instead. "Thanks for today Darry. I know that wasn't easy this mornin'. Chasin' after Ponyboy like you did."

"Didn't last long. He was fine after a popsicle. Why were you so late?" And he's doing his best to sound like he hasn't been crying, like he's strong. But he never has to try and prove that with me. He's the strongest kid I ever met.

"I had a flat tire Darry," and now I can't help but turn to him, "and I'm sorry you worried. I didn't have 'nuff money for them phones babe." Darry wipes his eyes in the crook of his arm and I want to fall to my knees on this porch, throw my hands up and ask God if I'm doing anything, one thing at all right, but it's Darry who answers that question.

His smile is slow but it's there, and his voice is raspy but it's sure. "We did it Dad."

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton

 _Thank you so much for all the kind reviews and those who read and say nothing at all. I seriously have a special love for those who are into this one._


	7. Chapter 7

_Please know that I don't take mental illness or shock treatment lightly. There is still controversy today surrounding electro convulsive therapy, ECT, often misrepresented by its negative reputation for being an abuse tool against mental patients in the past. Many have found the modern treatment to be successful (many have not) but more importantly, have found it humane (and still there are those who don't think it could ever be). I would never want to get in the middle of that argument or start one that wasn't there, but I do have a close family member who suffered severe postpartum depression and it worked like a charm._

 **THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Seven_

I'm fading away. I don't mind. One day my breath will become one broken wispy string, the last one to escape and I just won't lure another one in. And that'll be that. Any ounce of color I have left will pour out of me, discarded paint to pool beside leaves decayed. I'll turn to gray smoke; too thin, too weak to make a puff, just a fine line making its way to clouds that neither rain or snow, merely existing to dull the world.

"Vitals, EKG, everything looks good to proceed. Does she have a room this morning Colleen?" Voices claw through cobwebs and I'm a rag doll they work on, lift my wrist, position my head, move all of me. Where's Darrel?

"Yes Doctor, they're setting up 4B right now."

"Good morning Mrs. Curtis." Chin trapped by forceful fingers and a piercing light breaks in, my eyeball darting to escape white heat. Where's my husband?

"What do ya say Maggie, you ready to start this day? We're gonna go ahead and take you back, get you prepped." But I don't wanna go nowhere. "We'll be giving you some good medicine to make sure you're nice and comfortable for your therapy."

His hand feels cold on my arm. I shiver. Soda's always warm. Where's Darrel? Pony's awful close to them tracks.…

* * *

"Where's Momma?" I open my eyes to a pair of green ones, wistful and watery, only inches away. I pull Pony up into the bed beside me, cover us both up. He's used to lying with Maggie in the mornings. "Ain't she comin' home to me soon?" It's the saddest question he's ever asked me.

"Shh..she's still visitin' Aunt Mabel, 'member?" I remind and hush him and I'm wide awake now, wondering what Maggie's suffering through at the moment. I have to be at work in less than an hour but I can't imagine actually sitting up and putting two feet on the floor. How can I, knowing what they're going to do to her today?

Pony's sucking his thumb and with his other hand he's lightly tracing the tattoo I always tell him is his. His presence, his sweet innocence are the only things keeping me from ripping these sheets off and wrecking this miserable bedroom right now. From tearing it all apart. Even more than it is already.

Pony's just about to drift off when we hear a scuffle taking place out in the den. "But I didn't drink it," Soda yells, his temper flaring. A couple of bumps and knocks and I'm sure Darry's got him in some kind of hold. "Lemme go Darry." Something turns over. Or someone. I expect they'll work it out but I realize I sure as hell can't hide in here for the whole day. Life doesn't stop to wait around on my sorry ass. I choke down my anger and fear and frustration and pull it together for a quick shower and shave, Ponyboy galloping right on my heels.

There's hardly an ounce of harsh to my tone when I force Pony out of the bathroom. "Let Daddy take his shower by his self, now I ain't gon' tell you again. Sit your behind outside this door or I'm fixin' to pop it."

* * *

"Can you sit up for us Maggie? I'm certain you can walk just fine to your session." I manage to brush his arm away and refuse. Nobody's gonna tell me what to do.

I draw up what little strength still survives somewhere inside. "Last I checked I ain't married to you."

No matter. They take me anyway, chattering like it's any other day to them. The world starts rolling by while I lie on my back and I feel like I'm on my way to slaughter. I watch those blinding ceiling lights flash by me one by one by one by one, I count them, like I count everything. To find my way back home.

* * *

"Boys listen up. Darry's in charge when I'm not home." I'm restless while I sit on my hands through Dad's daily rules, ready for this day like I haven't been in a long while. His voice gets louder and firmer. "And what does that mean Soda Curtis?"

Soda sighs and says what he's supposed to. "That means I'm not in charge." He's slumped in his chair looking insulted.

Dad talks to us while he walks from room to room gathering his work stuff, checking that the numbers for both the construction office and the refinery are still taped by the phone, even though we're never ever supposed to dial them. And the number for Mrs. Thompson next door sits underneath, but we're not allowed to bother her either, seeing as her husband had a stroke last year and she's got her own set of toubles tending to him. I wonder why Dad bothers writing the numbers in the first place. But it's always been the same routine.

"Darry, gimme them house rules again. And you two rascals better clean out your ears and listen up." Pony actually sticks his finger in his and digs around.

I sit up straight and deliver each memorized Curtis Law without effort or thought, like I'm saying the Pledge of Allegiance while Dad nods after every one and Pony and Soda stare off in space or swirl a spoon through their cereal milk. I'm actually surprised he doesn't make us put our right hands over our hearts. I cover everything from stove safety to locked doors to no fighting to housekeeping to minding manners to no pissing off of the front porch. But when I get to the very last decree, I pause and look to Dad.

I'm supposed to say Mom's word is final and we're not to do anything without her permission. But now she's not back there in her bed to tell us no to everything we ask. She's not there to hold us captive in this house. I wait nervously for him to tell us we have to stay inside or that he'll have our hides if we so much as think of leaving the prison yard. But Dad just hops up like the list ends right where I left it. And suddenly I really am in charge.

And when he makes his way out the door, messing all our hair up along the way, I come alive right with his truck's engine. My smile feels as bright as the morning when I watch him through the curtains rolling out of sight. A bubbling laugh sits low in my belly and moves up my chest and it shakes my shoulders but makes no sound. And I realize…it's joy. I could cry out with it, this elation of finally being free, but I don't. I turn to Pony and Soda and tell them to get dressed. They look at me dumbfounded. I don't want to waste a single minute.

"Well you heard me. Get your clothes on and your shoes. Go, the both of ya. We're goin' out today."

* * *

They surround me in a cold room, pull over contraptions and wires to use on me. Something's finally waking up. It feels far away but a little like panic.

"Maggie I'm going to tell you what I'm doing the whole time. Nothing about this is going to hurt. We're sedating you so your seizures won't be so rough on your body, but I'm cuffing the bottom of one of your legs and one of your arms."

The cuffs go on and it's as if my soul just slipped through cracked ice and maybe I want to save myself from drowning.

* * *

"Let's go to the swimmin' hole." Soda's throwing rocks off the railroad trestle and he doesn't have a bad idea. The humidity is already pressing down and squeezing the morning, even though the dark clouds are starting to move in on us.

"Yeah okay," I agree and lead us further east, following the tracks that'll take us to the outskirts where the city hasn't met the country just yet. There's always tomorrow to track down the old gang and kick around with them, play stickball in the streets again or shoot BBs at cans with Garcia and the Greene twins and Moss and Shepard. I'm sure they've been wondering where I've been all summer. I can hear Timmy now, probably calling me a pussy for never showing no more. Last time I played with them we accidentally shot somebody's cat and we all ran like hell. I haven't been back since. They don't know it's got nothing to do with that damn cat. If I were them I'd be calling me a pussy too. But today is about freedom. For me and my brothers. For doing things we haven't been allowed to do for so long.

"You think Ma's spending her whole visit with Aunt Mabel in bed?" Soda asks. He's helping Pony balance while he walks the rails like a tight rope and I chuckle imagining Mom as someone's company, someone's guest, but taking over their bed and never getting out of it. "Wonder if Aunt Mabel can help her get happy," Soda says to himself. My smile fades when it's no longer funny.

We've almost made it. Pony's run up ahead a little ways. I still got my eye on him. Soda and I have already peeled off our sweaty t-shirts and they're hanging like rags from our back pockets. "It's hard breathing against this steam," Soda complains and rubs the sweat off the back of his neck. I can't wait to jump in the cool black water and I'm almost salivating for it. I'm gonna open my mouth when I'm under and swallow in a gallon of the dirty water Momma's so scared of.

A train starts rumbling the tracks. I feel the vibration and a horn sounds off in the distance. I yell out for Pony to come on back with us. He hears me. Turns around and I guess he wants his shirt off too. I watch him struggle, tangling himself up in it, standing right smack in the middle of the train track. Soda and I start speeding up our walk.

"Pony, you better get off the track right this second," I yell more demanding even though we still got plenty of time, but I can tell Soda's starting to get nervous cause now he's yelling for him too. We look at each other, I see my own fear in Soda's brown eyes and that's all we need to ignite both of our panic. The dust kicks up clouds behind us as we take off running to reach him.

Pony's already hopped off and safe in the grass before we get there, but throughout the mad dash I imagined him dead, brutal flashes in my mind of his little torn up body, a closed coffin. Soda and I are bent over trying to catch our breath and our sanity while our little brother's twisting to see his back pocket, trying to stuff his shirt in there to match ours. Once I'm steadier I yank him around to face me.

He has no idea why I'd be angry. And really, it wasn't like he was misbehaving. But I couldn't stand it if something happened to him and that little dose of fear has my nerves on edge. My voice is more threatening than it's ever been. "Don't you ever stand on those tracks when you know a train's comin'. Do you hear me? If I ever see you do somethin' that stupid again I'll whip you so hard you'll be beggin' for God's mercy cause I sure won't show you none. Understand?"

We're caught in a wind tunnel as the train violently roars close beside us. It's too loud to hear beyond the metal screeches and pounding but Pony's not answering me anyway. He looks hurt and scared of me and I feel a little bad, but I force him to hold my hand and start walking again. I've made my own rule. From now on Pony will have to hold my hand if a train's going by. No ifs ands or buts. I try and squeeze but he wiggles his hand free and I'm about to fulfill my end of that threat I just gave him until I see he's gone for Soda's hand. And that's fine and dandy with me.

* * *

"We're cuffing you Maggie, only to keep your foot and your hand from being affected by the sedation. That way I can keep an eye on their movement while you're having your seizures and that's a good thing. I can better judge how strong or how light I need to go with you."

My struggle starts slowly, but my fight's building. My breath is coming stronger, and suddenly I don't want to just fade away. I rise up to take them on.

Several pairs of gloved hands work to hold me down as someone else scrambles to get the syringe in my IV faster. I twist against them, writhe and cry and scream, frantic cause it's way too late. The medicine works well as it shoots through my veins and I'm stilled, the light going dim. They're back to talking as if I'm not dying right under their noses. "That fight came out of nowhere," some nurse says casually.

My lids are only half open now while my doctor's taping something to each temple. "I'm glad to see it. A good sign." What he says echoes across my skull and I see two of him as my mouth is forced open to allow the invading piece to slide in and press my tongue down. I gag and my eyes leak water, a tear zig zags down and I can't move to wipe it. "You're okay Maggie, just breathe through your nose," the doctor says softly and I feel comforted by a kindness I hear in his voice, like maybe he's going to take care of me. My body's floating now in a whirlpool of intoxication, my only focus on the rhythm of air that I'm drawing in and out, in and out to soothe. Somewhere a machine clicks on, firing up for the electricity that's spiraling across billions of molecules and already seems to be charging the room. This is it.

They finally put the mask on me. Yes please knock me out. Pretty please oh God. I open my nostrils wide and suck hard to take it all in fast and greedy, making sure I won't be awake for this. "Count backwards from ten Maggie," he instructs, but I pray instead.

"Holy Mary, mother of God pray for us sinners now..." But my prayers become more whimpers as I'm falling in the black water. "Oh God please Jesus watch over my babies."

* * *

A shock of lightning, an electric fork streaks its way across the sky, sizzling the air and crackling against the dark clouds it burns through. Soda's about to dive off the rock when he sees the flash and hears the thunder rise to answer almost immediately. "Think we should get out?" he asks me, hoping I'll say no.

We just got in and the water feels so good, even with Ponyboy hanging on my back, strangling my neck as I tread to keep us both afloat. "Nah, it's alright," I decide. It's probably dumb but I feel like the storm won't find us tucked way back in this swimming hole. And besides, I've never heard of anyone being struck by lightning in my life.

Soda nods his approval, seconding my irresponsible decision and tells us both to watch his attempt at a backwards dive. Of course he puts on a show high above us, taking his sweet time and making an act out of warming up his scrawny muscles while we wait, then turns around, quickly slipping his underwear down to moon us. Pony laughs and I roll my eyes and wonder if maybe he really did take a nip out of that whiskey bottle I found him sniffing this morning. After he's done wiggling his birthmarked backside around he pulls up his drawers and kicks himself off the mossy boulder, arching into a perfect back dive. He's grinning the whole way down, narrowly missing a thousand jagged rocks.

The lightning has become an unending round of flashbulbs, and we feel the thunder as much as we hear it. The sky opens up and the rain comes down in sheets, driven by a hard wind that bends the trees and adds to the choppiness of the water, and as far as I'm concerned the day is beautiful like this. Dark and rough and rebellious and it's like we're swimming in both earth and sky, down below and up above, an entire world of water. We splash around and tackle each other, always making sure Pony's never alone where it's deep enough that you can swim so far down the temperature drops real cold and you forget which way is up.

And the evil water-snakes circle and slither away, cause today, we're the dangerous ones.

* * *

"No I don't want her with a catheter. I want her up walking around by later today."

I open eyes slowly and can do nothing but blink. I have no earthly idea where I am. I listen to the voices and try to piece together some kind of story.

"As soon as she comes off this I want her dressed and in a normal room. Give her some lunch. Mark what she eats, we'll continue with her fluids if needed. I want to talk to her later this evening. Clear some time for me during my rounds. I'll be back after the dinner hour."

* * *

The storm's cleared and it's hotter than it was before it began. The blazing sun dries us out on the walk home, even our wet underwear beneath our clothes. Well, mine and Pony's. Soda refused to wear his underwear and it's drying across his shoulder. If Dad could see us now he'd call us his swamp babies for sure.

Pony stays close beside us without me even needing to remind him, without even a sign of an approaching freight. I smile a little to myself, feeling kind of powerful that I was able to teach him a lesson. Then I wince at the morbid visuals of his wrecked body I had earlier. I shiver in the mercury of a hundred degrees. I think about Mom always screaming her head off at me to make sure Pony's not tearing off for the tracks down our street. I reach out and rest my hand on top of his wild hair. He has no idea why.

"C'mere squirt," I tease and bring him in for a headlock, let him know I love him by roughing him up a little bit.

* * *

I'm sore, like the flu's settled on my muscles, but at least I'm wearing my own clothes now. I ignore the dry toast at my little table, close my sweater together over my dress and stare out at the late afternoon. I'm startled by the man who's sitting down in the chair across from mine.

"Maggie, I'm Dr. James, do you remember me?" I don't recall much about coming here, but I recognize his voice. The kindness. "You've just had your first shock therapy and it sometimes affects your short term memory, or makes you a little confused. Are you getting your memory back Maggie?"

I don't bother answering. I just hope Darrel comes to get me before nightfall. I look down and notice my dress is zipped on backwards.

"After a few more sessions, I really think you're going to feel your depression lifting a little each time, kind of like a thick fog that finally starts clearing." I notice he doesn't talk to me like I'm used to doctors talking to me. He's not showing off with fancy words. He doesn't even wear a white coat.

"I have to have more of 'em?" I may not remember it, but somehow I know it was terrible.

He leans toward me. "I would like you to, and Darrel would like for you to have some more. We think it'll get rid of that pain you've been sitting under for awhile now." My pulse stops when he mentions that Darrel wants me to stay, wants me to take even more of this. I draw in a shaky breath and look back at the setting sun.

"Maggie, I normally don't start my talking sessions until the next day, but I had to come in and tell you about how surprised I was by you this morning. How you fought against us during your therapy today."

My stomach drops and I look at him, wondering if I'm in trouble. Oh God the things they could do to me here for punishment. My breath starts speeding up. Dr. James must see my distress. He puts his hand on mine. "No Maggie, that's a wonderful thing. You'd been so lifeless, and today you showed some spark, a will to fight and survive and live. That's a big deal in a place like this. I think you'll be a very receptive patient. But you have a lot to fight for don't you? Darrel tells me you have three boys at home."

That's all he has to say for me to collapse back into my chair and weep for my children. He lets me cry for a long time, till it's grown dark and I've got nothing left. Maybe I won't just turn into gray smoke. Dr. James stands up to leave once I've quieted, tells me we'll talk more tomorrow.

And I think I might actually want to.

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton.


	8. Chapter 8

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Eight_

"So tell me about your sons Maggie."

Surely he knows I'm not up to talking today. Where would I even begin? I don't have the words and besides, my tongue would only trip me. Nothing's ever good enough. And I'm tired of failing those poor boys of mine. I think about Ponyboy and have to close my eyes for a moment, work to keep on breathing.

The doctor reminds me that we're still in this room together, still here and tied to the Earth when he starts to speak. And his patience wraps around my shoulders. "Could you tell me what you're thinking about right now Maggie, what you see when you close your eyes?" And I suppose that's not too much to ask.

Even I'm surprised my mouth takes shape to form the answer. My lungs fill up to inflate the syllables that ride the waves of sudden sound. It's been awhile since I've heard my voice, or rather, recognized, felt connected to and claimed it as mine.

"I see...", and my yearning and pride for my babies collide on a whisper, "my little boys." I'm so moved by the mere thought of them my breath draws back in a tiny little hiccup.

His warm smile makes me feel like my answer is right. Like maybe I'm halfway decent. And that sits well inside me. Calms my storm for the moment. And it's in the quiet that I can hear them.

The smallest voices have never stopped calling me back home.

* * *

"Darry, I wanna mail this to Aunt Mabel." Soda's shoving a piece of paper in my hand and staring up at me, his tongue flicking at a loose tooth that's barely hanging on. The note's been folded in a half dozen crooked ways and I wonder how I'm getting out of this one.

I wave it in front of his nose. "It needs an envelope and a stamp ya know. And we ain't even got her address." I sound like a know-it-all, but I kinda do in this situation.

"There's stamps and envelopes back behind the coupon can. On the top shelf over the phone and you can reach 'em for me." Of course Soda knows every drawer and cabinet in this house. "But why we gotta get her a dress? I guess we can send her one of Momma's. She prolly wouldn't mind."

I watch him try and think that through, fiddling with his broken belt loop and working on that stubborn tooth. I roll my eyes even while I'm feeling sorry for him. I don't know which is dumber. That he doesn't know what an address is or that he thinks Mom wouldn't throw a hissy fit if he gave one of hers away.

"An address is where somebody lives, idiot," I try and explain but he's already onto something else.

Racing outside to meet the shouts of the neighbor kids who've taken over our tire swing, he yells behind his shoulder, "You'll do that for me Darry, wontcha?"

I want to do that for him, but how do you mail a letter to someone who doesn't exist? I walk to the window and watch him jump aboard the already crowded tire, too full of excitement to wait his turn, too full of life and fun for the others to refuse him. They laugh and hang onto him instead, making room and pulling him closer into their knobby kneed circle. I look down and unfold the letter. He didn't say I couldn't read it.

It's a crayon mess, full of mostly his drawings instead of words that he doesn't know yet how to write. Stick figures, a frowning sun and a flock of flying V's. Most of what's written are letters strung together that don't make no kind of sense. I can make out the dear Aunt Mabel. And I can tell the part he's taken the time to sound out to himself, because that's the only sentence I understand. The only one he cares about.

 _p_ _lez snd mi moma hom_

* * *

A spark of tangerine trails through periwinkle clouds, and violet bursts of brush strokes are laid out with thought, careful to be wildly haphazard. A shock of gold fading into fiery maroon melts into a pool of indigo.

"My goodness Mrs. Curtis, you sure know how to paint," and I sit back and fully take in my sunset on canvas while Nurse Burns admires the details. I cock my head, one side to the other and decide it's missing something. I click the wooden end of my paintbrush against my teeth and the cheerful nurse heads to the next patient who like me, sits in the hospital's back garden for fresh air and relaxation and if we so choose, artistic expression.

I dip my brush to swirl several deep colors into a vibrant midnight blue, and a few drops of the rich velvety hue are splattered when the weight of a man's hand on my shoulder startles me...

 _His approach from behind is out of nowhere and he grips my shoulder, my right, the one I've raised to guide my way across a watercolor reverie. The thin brush falls from my clumsy hand, taking a long dive into a splash of seafoam green and I blurt out fast, "I'm sorry Daddy, I'll clean.."_

 _But before I can finish my promise my head is whipped around to face him, forced by his vice-like grip against my sunburned cheeks. "You still seein' that Curtis boy?" His breath is bourbon and his eyes bloodshot. "The Lord doth detests lying lips little girl." His pinching hand gives my face a good hard shake back and forth, like a dog with the bone in his mouth._

 _"Yes sir," I stammer after his fingers let my jaw go free. "For a few months now, Darrel and me, we've been steady." The truth has escaped my throat and already fled the scene, abandoning me exposed._

 _I can breathe a little when he heads across the kitchen and starts his usual rant, the warnings of what God thinks about girls who aren't pure. What the devil has in store for the easy ones, the kind of daughter he'd disown if she opened her legs to trouble, unclean._

 _He's busy lighting the prayer candle beneath the crucifix that might save us, his back to me, but I still slowly bring my legs together at my knees, as if he might somehow be able to catch a glimpse up my skirt and see where Darrel Curtis has already been._

The hand gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze and I'm brought back to my painting of a dying sun. It's Dr. James behind me, praising the brilliant colors of the sky scape I created, before he bends down so I can hear his softer voice. "I'm afraid I have to pull you away Mrs. Curtis. It's time for your therapy."

* * *

"You mean I don't gotta come home till the sky gets dark?" I stare at Dad in disbelief, both of my buttery hands still holding my nibbled cob of corn.

Giving me the look, he snaps at me, points at my napkin that I forgot about, and I snatch it up, wipe away all the kernels that still stick to my greasy lips before I lay it across my lap where it belongs. And the deep chuckle before his answer surprises me further. "I said _before_ dark, little man. But yeah Darry, you can stay out till them street lights start flickerin'."

Then his smiling eyes switch back again to stern, but I don't mind at all, and I'm nodding to his every word. "When you see them come on, you best get on this porch real quick, cause you show up a second after the sky's reached pitch, you ain't gonna like what'll be waitin' at home for ya. Understood?"

"Yes sir," is my promise and the deal is set, my excitement barely contained and sending my stomach in flips. I try and eat my meatloaf fast so I can get back to the stickball game down the street. The summer sun isn't near close to sinking even though it's already way into the evening, and I'm so grateful for the extra hours. Grateful that Dad's let up on all those ridiculous rules. So relieved that he's taken off most nights and come home to us, even cooking, sometimes burning supper and taking back the reins of this runaway wagon, righting it and steering us back to a far less scary road. And the best part of it all, he's cut the short and coiled leash that's bound me to the four posts of my mother's bed all summer long.

"Do I get to stay out late too Daddy?" Soda asks, already out of his chair and leaning against Dad's, his skinny arm thrown across my father's sleeveless shoulder and the side of his face pressed against an inked bicep.

Dad swallows his bite, washes it down with his iced tea and tells him, "Long as you stay with your big brother and mind him. Now get on back in your seat and I wanna see you eat every... single... one... of'em green beans," and I'm too happy to even resent Soda, my forever tag-a-long.

Nobody's noticed that Pony's been under the table this whole meal, wrangling Mom's yellow rubber dish gloves onto his feet, until we hear him call out "I'm gonna play late too", loud and demanding.

Dad leans back and to the left, takes a look down at the strangest kid on the planet, pulls him out from underneath and plops him down right into his dusty denim lap, then scoots the both of them closer to his plate.

"'Fraid not Pony," he says and plants a loud smooch of a kiss on top of his auburn waves of hair. "You're gonna stay here and keep Daddy from gettin' lonesome," and I roll my eyes every time Pony picks up Dad's food with his fingers, and wonder how it's fair that he's never having to behave at suppertime like Soda and me.

* * *

"You're okay Maggie, it's over," and I don't see but I feel the nurses fluttering around me. Unstrapping, unhooking, peeling off tape and uncuffing. I'm too weak to even lift my eyelids, but I try to, managing to let in a narrow strip of bright light that shines through tangled lashes.

Dr. James appears, looking down at me, smiling. "You did real good Maggie." And just that little bit of praise drips into my veins right along with my IV. The kind doctor's off to another room, another case, his voice now far away but aimed back at me. "Two down, two to go." A countdown of shock treatments. A countdown to well.

xXx

"I'm going to show you a series of black and white paintings. They're called inkblots. I want you to tell me the first thing you see when you look into them Maggie. Whatever comes to mind."

"Ummm, I see a moth...that one looks like a lady's insides...a skull...a pelvic bone.."

He's writing all this down. I know I'm sounding crazy.

"Is there somethin' wrong with what I'm seeing?" I ask softly, my nerves making my scalp tingle.

"There's no right or wrong to this kind of test, Maggie" he assures me and then holds the card up to study it for himself. "But that does look _exactly_ like a pelvic bone."

I smile at him. And I hear myself giggle. And it's been a thousand years.

xXx

"Dr. James tells me you're in here for depression and anxiety, is that right Mrs. Curtis? I'm Dr. Belzier. You'll be meeting with me for a few sessions and together, we're going to come up with some healthier ways to help you cope. How does that sound?"

xXx

Third time's a charm. I go willingly. I hand them my wrist to cuff. I open up wide for the mouthpiece to slide in. I sink back and let the anesthetic take me. I want the shocks. I want whatever this is out of me.

xXx

"Tell me about your childhood, Maggie."

I don't want to go there.

xXx

I miss my boys. I cry for them, and I see them, hold them in vivid dreams.

I miss Darrel. And I lie in bed at night and think of his body and I ache for his touch. I can't help but touch myself.

And it feels like waking up.

* * *

I come home to the boys fighting, their shouts reaching me before I even hit the welcome mat. They still haven't seen me. I could always just turn right back around and make a break for it while I still can. Spend the rest of the night in a lonely bar knocking back a few or ten, tell Pauly to keep 'em coming until I can forget about all this. But that's not who I am.

I guide my key into the knob and rattle it back and forth, purposely making a ruckus so they'll hear me, like a warning shot, give these monkeys a chance to pull their act together. Cause I ain't in no kind of mood to walk into a whirlwind of whining about who hit who and all that tattletale bullshit.

"Shhh...y'all Dad's home, no fightin'," comes as a relief through the glass panes and they've settled down by the time I step inside.

"Hey guys," I sigh in a piss poor kind of greeting, scanning a room that's been turned completely upside down, "did y'all find somethin' to eat?"

"Darry made macaroni," Soda, the informer, answers quickly before anyone else has the chance.

"Well ain't that nice of Darry," I grunt when I lower slowly into my chair, feeling the pull of every screaming back muscle. I reach down to untie my laces, talking through the strain, "I'm sure ya'll thanked him for cookin' right?" and I can't hide my wince when I straighten back up.

"Yes sir," is Soda's automatic reply, while Pony's shaking his head no. By the look on Darry's face, I can tell he was thanked by neither brother.

"Thanks Darry," Soda goes ahead and surrenders before I have to make him, his eyes cast down at his wiggling bare feet.

And Pony with a scrunched up freckled nose, in all his honesty and with no kind of filter adds, "Thank you Darry, but it wasn't very good." I don't even have the energy to deal with what that boy just said and the way he said it, but it seems to roll off Darry's back anyway.

I thumb through the mail, then head for a shower. There's no goofing off or wrestling with Papa Bear tonight and all three of them could probably guess that was the case the minute they saw me. "This room better be put back together by the time I come back," I call out, and I leave them to their bossy whispers and all three telling each other what to do and how to do it.

I turn my back against the scalding spray, hoping it'll work out all my kinks, close my eyes and lose myself in the steam invasion. It was a long and grueling day on the roofs but that wasn't the worst part about it. I stopped by the factory to pick up my paycheck. That's when I could see in black and white dwindling numbers, the heavy hit my bottom line took from all my absences. There ain't much of our savings left. I'll be working twice as hard next month to make up for it.

She's been gone three weeks now.

Turning to face the deluge, I squeeze my eyes shut and open my mouth, let the hot water slap against my tongue and fill me up, silence the scream that's sat in my throat for months now, and I can hardly stand her being away. I want her back. I want her well, but if she can't be, I want her any way I can get her, I'll take her any way she comes. _Come back to me darlin', I need you Maggie, please baby I want you to try... for me_ , and anymore I'm in a constant state of internal pleading, as if I can will her home.

I try and block out the knocking on the bathroom door, pretend it doesn't exist, but it grows louder and more forceful until I erupt, "Whoever's knockin' on this door right now had better have a damn good reason." The knocker has silently slinked away and I attack my hair with shampoo hands, rubbing against the grime and desperation.

But through the water blasting around my ears, I hear Darry and I can tell the door's been opened by the cool blast of air that's suddenly swept the foggy room. I twist the knob to shut it down immediately and tell him to give it to me again. "Huh?"

"I said...the phone's for you. Long distance, so I figured you'd wanna know. It's some doctor."

 **A/N:** The Outsiders by SE Hinton

 _Thanks to all those readers who haven't given up on this story, on me, or on Maggie :)_


	9. Chapter 9

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Nine_

What's wrong? What's happened to her? I don't bother drying off and I'm still knotting the towel around my waist as I slide down the hall, desperate to get to the phone. I never should've sent her there. I should've known she'd be too small to stand up to them shocks. My stomach's reached my throat when I snap at the boys and tell them to hush up now, and I picture myself running through the doors of that asylum in nothing but this soggy towel and carrying her all the way back home where she belongs. My God what have I done to my Maggie?

"Yeah, it's Darrel Curtis," I answer, practically yelling into the receiver and hearing my rapid breathing pound back against my eardrums. And I don't say a word while Dr. James calmly explains the progress of his patient, and the world and time slow to a crawl. Nothing exists but the doctor's steady voice and my three boys in front of me, seeming to move in slow motion while I wait for the fallout. I stare at Darry and Soda wrestling, their bodies locked together on the couch, I watch Ponyboy beating on his brothers' backs with the needlepoint pillow my baby sister made before the TB took her, and the leftover water droplets zig zag their way down my body in a Chinese torture kind of way.

"…and should be ready to come home in a matter of days. Your wife is quite strong, Mr. Curtis."

I'm still in a trance when my heart unfolds from its clutch, and I lick at a stray drop of water that's found its way to my lip. But it tastes salty and it's not from the shower. I'm smiling and starting to realize what I've just heard, what I've been given, and the earth fires up again to normal speed, sound returns and colors are vibrant and my wild little boys are loud and fit and thunderous. My bicep flexes along her cursive name when I pump my fist, in silent celebration of the victory. Her victory.

You're damn right my little bayou girl is strong.

"Tomorrow mornin' Doc," is all I can stand to say cause I can't wait another day and won't, "I'm comin' to get her."

* * *

I don't even realize Dad's finished his phone call and gotten dressed until he claps his hands and demands our attention. I shake Pony off my back and let Soda escape out from under me and we three sit on the couch waiting for the lecture. But Dad, his hair uncombed and his t-shirt wrinkled, looks nowhere near angry, despite the fact we didn't clean the den like he'd asked. In fact, it's even messier than before, but he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes are shining and he's got his old smile back, revealing a solid row of strong teeth that Mom's always gushing about, proud they're all present and accounted for.

And I admire them too, not a single one loose or busted, managing to survive even his short-lived boxing career when he fought for those hardcore street leagues. He tells me it was merely a means for money when he was down and out, but if only I could've seen my father then, hammering all those blows with taped up fists, leaving his opponents out cold or seeing stars; at least that's how it goes in every single scene I've dreamed up. But he won't ever talk about any of his records or knockouts when I ask him. To me this part of his past is mystical legend, but for him, his underground nights in the corrupt and seedy backstreets of Louisiana badlands remain exactly that. Underground.

And Mom, who's threatened by any story that might lead one of her good little lambs astray, sternly tells me that there's no glory in making a living off of punching people in the face, and even as Dad nods his head beside her in agreement, his faraway eyes reflect a different story. The real one; his own.

"Alright Soldiers listen up, I've got some real good news," and I figure it's what the call was about and I flick Soda next to me when he burps in my ear and he pinches my leg hard in return. "I just got off the phone with Aunt…hey, you two need to separate.. right now." And I gladly walk away from Soda and fall into Dad's chair with a smirky grin, cause it's where I wanted to sit all along.

And even with a little squabble Dad's mood can't be stopped, "So, when all ya'll find your shoes, and Ponyboy, hon we need to track down the location of your pants, after that we're goin' out to have us some coke floats...cause fellas," and I watch my brothers' eyes widen, "your Momma's comin' home."

Their joyful shouts erupt as they shoot off the couch and Dad scoops them up and I'm in a panic of what to do, how to act, when I don't feel the same, don't feel their happiness, or any kind of relief. My mouth goes dry and I stand slowly, and Dad looks over, his arm outstretched to include me in their circle, but my feet are glued to the floor and I can only shake my head. His jaw sets tighter with every shake I give but I can't stop myself. In fact, I whip my head faster and faster, tossing this house back and forth until my mouth opens and I'm uttering, "No, no, she can't come home."

She can't be well. There's no way she's better, and I feel my life, the outside world slipping out of my grasp again, all of my games and my friends disappearing with it.

Pony looks at me in confusion and Soda stares with narrowed eyes in both judgment and concern, and I don't need Dad's shameful look to spark my own. I'm already ashamed. I was born ashamed. I know it's wrong and my words are destroying their joyful moment. What's worse they're hurting my father who I love. But I can't control my reaction, and I don't want my mother to crawl her way back in and ruin what we've got right now, the four of us.

Dad's trying to give me every opportunity to take it back. "Darry, babe, you're mixed up, now you don't mean that," he informs me but I happen to be thinking more clearly than I ever have, and even his size and tone can't scare me into saying what he wants to hear.

But I can be just as hard, and I feel my spine straighten when I won't back down. "I don't want Mom to ever come home," I yell it out so there's no mistaking where I stand in the matter, and I'm only now discovering how furious I really am. A crocodile rage swims inside my belly, and I dare anyone to get their hand too close.

And through all my fog filled daydreams, in a patch of streetlight somewhere beneath the rusted iron bridges near the riverboat docks, dead center of the circling crowds of gamblers, he stands ready. The Boxer looks an awful lot like me.

* * *

It don't take a Dr. James to know what's going on here. I know why Darry's acting out, after all he's been through. I feel for him, but even while I understand, I've got a line he's about to cross and when he does I ain't gonna keep my cool. I feel my blood pressure spike when he won't take his words back, and I refuse to let him disrespect his mother who's fought a thousand battles and won, only to have her first born run off his mouth about her.

"Darrel Shaynne Curtis," I say in a voice packed with gunpowder, "you keep gettin' mouthy with me and you'll find yourself in a world of hurt." But I can tell Darry's too far gone to listen, and in this room, I only seem to be intimidating poor Pony who tucks himself against his middle brother and sucks his thumb, rubbing Soda's soft t-shirt sleeve between his fingers. Without notice or thought, Soda bends his arm out a little, allowing him easier access.

I immediately soften my voice. "Soda, why don't you take Pony back to his room and help him find his clothes."

"Okay," Soda says, giving me his trademark side-eye while his finger points up at me and wiggles all around, "but we're still goin' out for them coke floats, right?" I work at straightening my face when I nod and match him eye for eye.

"Yeah, we're gonna get them floats. I'll come getcha when it's time to go. Ya'll run along now. Get."

And I watch Soda guiding Pony to his room, and once they stumble behind his door, I slowly turn my head to face my oldest, my best pal, the one who's never wanted to displease me. But tonight, here he is taking me on, and he's about to learn a lesson. Or hell maybe I am. "You, sit down," I bark and at least he follows that command.

I pull the piano bench out and drag it over, clear my throat and sit right in front of him, and his eyes are as scared as they are stormy. I decide to start over and try this again, because I so desperately want him to take this third chance I'm giving him. I lean forward, hoping to make myself clear. "Darry, I seen what you've been through, but I expect you to welcome your Momma home. You can't talk that way about her and I won't let you. Not to me and certainly not in front of your brothers."

He's not looking me in the eyes and he won't give a "yessir" and I'm silently begging him to shape up. I only want to be celebrating this good news right now, not giving lectures and threats. Do these boys think I enjoy this? "C'mon Darry. It ain't fair to put the blame on your Ma. You know how sick she's been." I wince even as I say it. Of course he knows how sick she's been. "She wasn't herself this summer."

I'm relieved to finally get a response out of him, even if it comes with an eye roll, and I would've punished him already for his misbehaving had this been about anything else. His voice sounds choked and I can't tell if he's on the verge of shouting or crying. Either way he's gonna explode. "She hasn't been herself a lot longer than that. Or maybe this is who she really is. How'm I s'posed to know?" His eyes slice through me.

Who does this boy think he is questioning me? In my head I count to five before I speak. "There ain't nobody I know better than Mom, and believe me, she was mighty sick." I can't tell what it means that his eyes are closed. "And I'm sorry she hurt you that day. She's even more sorry she hurt you that day. But she got better when she went away and now she's comin' back. And you _will_ show her your love and respect Darry."

I sit up straight when he jumps out of the chair and I let him have his outburst, but it's hard not to nip this in the bud with a good heavy handed swat. Anything to try and jar him out of this fit he's throwing. "It ain't just about that day Dad. It's about all those days when you weren't here," and I don't like the way his voice keeps raising. "You got to leave. We never did. I had to stay here with her all day, every day and just _take_ it. And you let it happen." I stand up when he starts pointing, but the tears in his eyes stop me from dragging him over my lap.

I walk towards him, reach out to touch his arm, just to calm him down, but he steps backwards away from me and screams, "No," and it's so unlike Darry I'm frozen in my tracks and there's nothing to do but watch my son come undone.

"I don't care if you're mad at me, I don't care if I'm in trouble and you ground me," he's yelling out of his mind and backed himself up against the wall, and I can sense the audience of two behind me that's peeking in on this show, "and I don't care if you scream at me or send me to my room. I don't even care if you give me a spankin' or you shove a bar of soap in my mouth. I don't care as long as it's _you_ , and not _her_."

And this child is in shock, and maybe so am I when I watch him grab Maggie's porcelain figurine of Mother Mary and hurl it against our front door, and that boy's got a helluva arm.

* * *

Mary spirals through the air, her hands folded in peaceful prayer throughout her entire flight, and it's when she nails the front door that I realize what just happened. She lands in two pieces on the floor, her robed body separate and apart from her delicate head.

I stare at the jagged broken edges and wonder what I've done, what's possessed me, and I look to my father, who looks as appalled as I am. I wonder why my hands are both up in the air, my last shot at innocence, as if my hands and I had nothing to do with the crime when there were three witnesses to watch the entire gruesome scene.

I hear myself stuttering, pleading for mercy, "I-I-I-didn't mean it. Dad, I'm sorry," and there's nothing for me here but regret and punishment, so I turn on my heels and bolt out of the house, jumping off the porch and through the gate, left swinging noisy in my wake.

I run away from all of it, including Dad's shouts off the porch that travel faster into the dusk than I can, "Darry come back here." I don't know where I'm going but to nowhere quick, and I finally outrun his voice that's shrinking smaller and smaller as I leave it all behind.

When I've cleared some distance I dial it back to a walk, my lungs still working overtime, and the sun's taking its leave from a late August sky. Soon I'll have very little light left, and I find myself sitting on top of one of the park's weathered picnic tables, rest my chin on my knees pulled up, and sink with the sun.

Maybe I'm as crazy as my mother.

It's especially dark in my little corner by the tree line, and everything around me seems to dissolve on the tongue of twilight. I've gotta go back at some point. I don't have shoes on and I can't survive alone in Crutchfield. Mom's already warned us about the hobos who steal little kids around here, and now I keep looking behind my shoulder. I feel sick in the pit of my stomach when I imagine being taken, forced to live among the drifters and vagabonds, hopping railcars and sleeping in shantytowns.

I said I didn't care if Dad gave me a licking, and now maybe I do, but I guess there's nothing for me but to surrender, because the air's a little colder now and the macaroni supper I whipped up seems like a long time ago. Yet every time I get the nerve to return with my tail between my legs, I'm stopped by the bitter thought of having to deal with a mother whose mind was lost and littered somewhere along the train tracks, and Dad will never ever _ever_ know just how bad it really got.

But I think about my brothers and what would happen to them if I left. So I stretch my legs out straight and hop down to start making my way to the road, feeling the steel cuffs close around my pocketed wrists.

I'm blinded by the headlights of a truck that parks in the empty lot, gravel crunching under tires, and I squint to see Dad climbing out. I take a deep breath. The wrath has arrived and I watch him start jogging towards me. "Darry," he calls out in a voice I don't recognize, then he slows his pace and finally stops altogether, looking at me, giving plenty of room between us, like I'm an animal he doesn't want to spook.

I drag my feet in his direction, and know a little bit now of how it might've felt to face him in the ring. An intimidating silhouette, he stands in the patch of a streetlight, just like in my dreams. How could I ever think of taking him on? The man who could throw a one punch knockout, the man who once lived by the whipping rhythm of both the blues and brutal fists.

I swallow hard, putting one foot before the other in soft grass, and begin the death march of turning myself in, my shoulders slumped and head bent in submission. But the closer I get, the more I can make out his face, his eyes, my own. My legs are starting to pick up speed now, faster and faster toward the man who stands in the pool of electric white, and suddenly I'm breaking into a full run, kicking up the dust trail of a million boyhood sorrows behind me. Gasping and swallowing air, I fly with dirty feet across the asphalt, until I'm jumping up into the powerful arms he's opened for me, and he holds me tight and lets me bawl into his neck and chest. Like I haven't since I was a baby. He doesn't even think of spanking me, he's shushing me instead and rubbing my hair and telling me gently it's all gonna be okay. And I don't even need to explain myself because he already knows.

"I'm sorry Darry. I ain't never gonna let things get as bad as they did. You don't have to go through that. Ever again. Honey I promise."

And over his shoulder through stinging eyes, I can see my little brothers in the truck. From the worn bench seat they watch my father and me, prizefighters intertwined, and wait to bring us home.

* * *

A round of solitaire lines the foot of my bed and the nighttime orderly's already made her last appearance to check on me. This wing is usually peaceful once the busy evening staff goes home, and I'm on a losing streak, so I pick up my cards, shuffle once for good measure and turn off my headboard light.

The night noises in the hospital hall have become familiar, almost comforting; the creaking wheels of the mop bucket, the faraway casual conversation of the graveyard shift, the sporadic chime of the elevator. I'm drifting off when I hear footsteps, heavy but quick, growing louder and closer until they're just outside my room. A little knock and the door's already open. I gave up my pride and privacy once I was checked into this place. But like anything, you get used to it.

"Mrs. Curtis?" he whispers, because I share this room with two other sleeping ladies.

I sit up and welcome Dr. James in, and the good doctor sits in the bedside chair. I wonder if he ever goes home. But I guess for him, his life work's his passion and I'm the lucky one for that.

"I spoke with your husband earlier," he tells me and my concern peaks. "I told him you'd be ready to go home soon, after we have a few sessions to help prepare you for your return to everyday life, and of course monitor the lithium a few more days." I nod. I already knew all of this.

I wonder why a short chuckle escapes when he leans over and pats my arm. "But that's not gonna happen now Miss Maggie. You better get your bags packed first thing in the morning. Mr. Curtis has refused to let me keep you, not even a single day longer. And he's not one to argue with now is he?"

A warmth spreads over me, because it sounds exactly like my Darrel, and Dr. James rises and gives a wistful smile. "To be missed like that is a beautiful thing," he says and bids me goodnight. My last night.

There's no way I'll sleep now that I'm so close to having my babies back. And my blood swirls electric along my veins when I think of Darrel busting through these doors, grabbing my bags, his strong arms grabbing _me_ to steal away.

And once again, he comes to save me. My husband always takes what's his.

 **A/N:** Outsiders by SE Hinton

 _Some of you know this is my favorite story to work on. For those of you who are actually invested in it, my heart belongs to you. Seriously._


	10. Chapter 10

**THE BEGINNING**

 _Chapter Ten_

No matter that I don't have much to pack, I still roll out of bed way before first light to start. A bundle of nerves I arrange and rearrange what little I have, folding my one sweater and tucking it in between my old dresses, just so. Then I yank it out again and start over, smoothing the wrinkles and picking at an errant thread.

I tie my hair back, even though Darrel prefers it loose, but today it's in no kind of condition to be set free. I notice my eyes appear larger in a face that's been whittled down. My reflection stares back, a reminder of what I've seen and where I've been.

I walk to the window and look down on an empty street, and there's nothing to do but wait. I wait for headlights to splinter the dark. I wait for Darrel. To bring my life back to me. I wait for him...

 ** _May, 1944_**

My heart gallops, breath shaky when I sit on cold porcelain and pull my panties down. My knees open just enough for my stomach to wither when I see again the disappointment of clean white cotton. I wipe and check the toilet paper, willing my blood there, staring hard until traces of pink imaginations begin playing tricks.

It's been two months since I last bled. Six weeks since Darrel promised he'd pull out, three weeks since he ran off again for New Orleans to find work once the fields were seeded, and two days since my father did the unthinkable.

I shiver in the gray of a hollow morning and remember how to breathe.

To wait on something you know in your bones ain't ever gonna come, that's a dreadful way to pass the days.

But the wait, all this, it's my fault really.

 _Darrel's voice is raspy against my neck, "God Maggie, I'm gonna come," and before he can scramble to pull away I lock against him and hold him close, hold him for dear life. He can't pull out now._

" _No," is my whispered whimper, "I want you inside me. Darrel. Always."_

 _His final thrust is deep and my nails scratch down his back when I arch to feel the pulse of his warm release, to taste the sweat on his shoulder and to hear him breathe my name and God's._

And it's all my fault. My glorious fault.

xXx

All the ironing's finished, my dresses are hung and Daddy's slacks pressed just how he likes them, when I escape the hot kitchen to take a walk up by Cane River. The Spanish moss is welcoming to sit beneath, to read my letter once again, and I skip a stone but miss, the gray shale sinking beneath the riverbed where the currents really start picking up. And I know good and well where these waters run, all the way down into the bayou, where the Curtis shack sags low against time and grief.

The two sons are all that's left of that family now, and everyone says of the oldest Curtis boy and his wild shenanigans, "Guess Shaw ain't had enough bad fate, he gotta go and tempt his own." But Shaw Curtis happens to be his little brother's hero. Had Darrel heard them speaking like that of his only brother, his best friend, they wouldn't get away with it.

Some say they're a family cursed by the hexes of an evil voodoo. And I've seen Darrel himself throw his head back and laugh when he agrees, playing along with the caramel skinned women who try to break the black magic spell. From the market stalls where they sell their wares, they beg him to wear the gris-gris amulets they offer up and hang around his tanned neck. And in my eyes, Darrel's as different and exotic as those Creole ladies who still speak their French and live among the restless spirits that walk this genteel parish.

After stirring up all their intrigue, the curious eyes of the townsfolk follow his easy gait. And he carries himself home from the old square, with a certain pride of where he comes from, comfortable in his skin and his name, and relaxes into the swamp country that has always managed to sustain him, even through her harder seasons.

Daddy snatched my tongue when I was little and threatened to cut it off if I ever mentioned voodoo again inside our walls, and he swore this while standing among the crucifixes and the candles of patron saints meant for warding off a Catholic kind of evil. My father doesn't believe the Curtises are as cursed as they are trash, and worse, being that they're only a mere two generations deep in Louisiana, as outsiders.

I wouldn't dare tell my father about Darrel's outlaw kin, moonshine bootleggers from the hollers of Tennessee. Though anyone would be entertained by Darrel's animated and magnetic storytelling of both the lawmen and the crooked, and his rendition of how his great-grandaddy Capshaw ran south to escape them Appalachian hills like his tail was on fire. I'd imagine even Daddy might grin at these wild adventures, so long as his daughter wasn't smitten with the boy who told them.

"That boy, he ain't our people. Not our kind at all." And the more Daddy goes on about him, the more I want that outsider.

Four more days till Darrel comes back home, from what I can gather in his postcard. Its ink has bled in some places, where it must've met a rainstorm between here and that dirty French Quarter, but I can make out his untamed handwriting, his wisecrack that he has more faith in the Pony Express than our postal service, and his countdown until he comes back to me. Even his written words cry out with lust. Something deep in my womb rises to meet it, throbbing to be filled with him again, then aching because it can't.

I cringe thinking of his split knuckles and the punches he's willing to take for such little prize money, and a thug's life he's forced to lead when he's working the most corrupted of streets. Oh how I long for him. I breathe for him. I live for him.

Knowing my father sneaks through my things, I throw the postcard into the river and watch it gracefully round the bend, drifting toward those magnificent and beautiful curses of the backwoods that have given me Darrel Curtis.

I wait for him...

* * *

I'm an hour behind schedule. I wanted to make Oklahoma City before morning rush, but our late night of spent emotion and promised coke floats took its toll on all of us. I could hardly rouse Darry from his sleep to let him know I was hitting the road, so I left him a note and deposited a sleeping Pony in his bed.

The rising sun has my eyes burning and my cap pulled low. And though I'm hellbent on getting to her, I think I'm more nervous now than I was the night I drove to her daddy's to pull her out of that house and out of Louisiana. More nervous even than the first time I went back, to visit Shaw through the glass partition inside Angola. My brother I cherish, locked behind a life sentence in the toughest of penitentiaries.

 ** _June, 1944_**

The grass looks like it's walking from all them leaping grasshoppers, and Shaw comes up slow behind me, sipping his beer and then pointing the bottle neck at me.

"I ain't asking', I'm tellin' you Darrel, getcha affairs in order and get out while you can, 'fore they start aimin' fingers at you, understand?" His hands are nicked all to hell and I'm not sure if the blood is someone else's. "I don't want you anywhere near my mess."

I think about Maggie and how I'd feel if our love was forbidden not by just one man, but a hundred or more, marching and violent behind their torches and cowardly cloaks.

I don't ask him what he's done but I know after this, it's only bound for worse, and I spit against the ground they singed.

I stand beside my brother, always have, always will.

Even in the light of the day those crosses burn right there inside our eyes, and as long as I live I won't forget the horror, the devastated look on his face when we ran out of our home and watched the hateful flames shoot up and lick at the sky their warning.

Cause half this parish knows Shaw Curtis been sharing his bed with a Creole girl.

xXx

"Maggie, honey, you 'member Tug from the cotton farm? And that oil jobber he told me 'bout up 'round Tulsa? I wanna leave tonight. With you baby." I flex my stiff fingers and blow on freshly busted knuckles.

Her voice sounds far away on the telephone. "Just up and leave?"

"Good as time as any," my laugh is quiet and more of a question, "right darlin'?"

I can hear her breath through the line, rapid from her gunfire impulse to say yes, but her words are measured and sincere. "Any time, anywhere Darrel, I'm yours. But..?"

"Don't you worry. I'll handle your daddy."

The hounds of hell or the devil himself couldn't hold me back from her. I bite back a growl that erupts from the thought alone. There's no length I wouldn't go for my girl and our baby. I'd hunt down and kill the soul that tried to take either. And I don't think I've been more dangerous.

"I'll be ready and waitin'," she tells me with the confidence of a seasoned gambler, and all her chips are in.

I race to get to her, before the first siren ever screams, before the morning story catches on an evening wind.

* * *

I spot him, right there slinking sideways between two parked ambulances. He's here. He made it. And he's loping up the concrete steps, taking them by twos, and my heart's beating faster the closer he gets. I look down from the third story window and see him as I did for the very first time on Market Street, only now he's made even more beautiful because our boys are everywhere inside him, behind his eyes and wrapping his bones, dancing all throughout the steady pulse of his strong veins. He takes off his ball cap and opens the door for a hurried lady, giving her a respectful nod and I'm sure a kind hello, then runs a quick hand through his hair right before he disappears into the building entrance below me. And he's as captivating as he ever was.

I reach for my clasp, and let my curls fall loose around my shoulders.

It takes time to sign in at the front desk and get clearance to take the elevator. I step out into the hallway but can't seem to walk beyond my door I lean against, while the butterflies swarm my stomach and my eyes gaze on the bronzed arrow above the elevator shaft as it starts from one and rounds its pointer to three. I feel faint and close my eyes, listen for the tired ding and the orderly who slides the cage doors open.

I open my eyes in time to see him scan the signs, figuring out which direction to go since I'm in a different room than when he left me here. He turns his head and spots me, and his face, his whole aura lights up and sparks all those butterflies of mine into exploding fireworks. He makes his way down my hall, and he's somehow taller than I remember, and it's a wonder I haven't melted, that my knees haven't failed me and I haven't slid boneless all the way down to the cold tile, but it's that sexy grin that holds me up, those eyes that lock and lift me, pulling me to stand and turn to face him.

I'm not quite sure he's really here until I hear him saying, "There's my girl," and he's sounding out everything that means home. And he's got all of me before he ever sweeps me up into his rugged arms, my feet now dangling high above the sterile floor and I grasp the back of his shirt into my fists.

"I'm sorry," is tucked somewhere inside my soft crying, and he's quick to shush me.

"Ssh, no, no baby," he whispers and puts me down easy, wipes my tears with tender fingers, "you don't gotta be sorry. Don't even say that," and his eyes are racing all over me, exactly how he does whenever he checks the boys to see if or where they're hurt. And once he realizes my tears are falling on lips that smile, he breathes in satisfaction and bends to kiss me, his hand tangled through my hair. And I'm back where I've always belonged.

* * *

"That's way too much cereal Soda. You're never gonna eat all that. Put some of it in Pony's bowl so it don't go to waste." I hold the carton away and won't pour him any milk till he minds me. He scoops up the smallest handful, but gets a good dose of my burning eyes, and he's shamed into filling up two fists for our little brother's empty bowl.

"Hey," Pony whines and holds his nose, "I don't want no cornflakes," but neither of us listen to him while I dole out milk for three cereals.

We eat in an early morning silence, all of us in our underwear, and their smacking and chewing's getting on every last one of my nerves. I'm so tired, and remembering my science book, I imagine 206 of my bones wearing down to a fine powder. And all I want to do is lie in bed. But I know that I can't.

"Dad says we all gotta scrub up good and wear clean clothes for when Ma comes home." My chin rests on my palm. "And put the den back together too."

And how quickly a set of chores can dampen their excitement for Mom's return. Their groans and complaints and we-don't-wannas somehow make me feel a little better. A little lighter. I drink the milk from my bowl and head to the couch to put back the cushions.

It's there where I see Mom's broken Mary. She's now on the piano, sitting right beside her own head, but she hasn't stopped praying. The taste of guilt is sour and almost makes me gag and Soda's suddenly beside me, his hand up on my shoulder.

"I sure would hate for Jesus to see what you've gone and done to his mom." He's shaking his head sadly, because he's already pretty sure Jesus can see everything anyway and his own brother's on the fast track to Hell. "I can help you glue her back together Darry..if you want," And I look down at Soda, and I wince against my intense feelings, the overwhelming appreciation for him that almost hurts me when I hear his kind offer.

And we spend the next half hour with a jar of Elmer's and the broken Virgin, tongues out in concentration, fingers poised, carefully lining the head to fit exactly along the cracks, situating and re-situating and situating all over again, until we both stand back and are satisfied with the end result.

"Just leave her be while she dries," I snap at Pony who gets too close.

Soda, screwing the lid on the mason jar, must've found some of his nerve to ask me, "Why'd you say that last night anyway Darry? Why don't you want Ma to come back home?" At least he had the decency to wait until Ponyboy left the room.

I study my toes, watch them bend and grip at the worn carpet beneath, while Soda waits for an answer. And all I wanna know is why am I the only one around here who wants to act like the last several months, the last year just didn't happen? But I think about what Dad told me about respecting Mom, and not just to her face but around my brothers. After all he's been through, I guess that seems pretty fair. I hem and haw and try to find my words, work at piecing something together. "I..didn't really..mean.."

Both our heads jerk around to the sound of splitting glue and porcelain tumbling against the table, and the Mother's lost her head again and now the break is even worse.

"Oh no," Soda's bringing his hand over his mouth and he looks heartbroken.

But all I feel anymore is fury, swift and striking. I point at Soda, my finger aimed dead center of his sun soaked face, just below his summer hair that's sweeping into his warm and forgetful eyes. "You know good and well why I don't want her here Soda," and my sudden cruel turn only baffles him. His face screws up in confusion. And I repeat what he already knows or should anyway, my voice low and my words cryptic, "You know exactly why."

* * *

After Dr. James goes over a few things at our discharge meeting, after I'm clear on the medication she needs to keep taking, after he tells me how they unearthed some of Maggie's past trauma and that she needs to continue her therapy back in Tulsa with Dr. Sherman, after he lists the behaviors I need to watch out for should her depression come back to steal her again, I'm finally shaking his hand and showing my gratitude for all his help, for the promises the good man kept.

But it's when Maggie falls apart at their goodbye is when I realize the depth of where they've been. And I wonder all that she told him but can't seem to tell me. Her own husband. I'm quick to brush away that schoolboy twinge of jealousy and remind myself that Dr. James gave me back my wife. The boys' mother.

I hold her suitcase and her hand as we walk out of the doors of this asylum and I can't believe the difference in the way we're leaving from the way we showed up that terrible morning. How I had to carry her in this place, how desperate and frantic I was, how lost Maggie was to all of us.

I open the car door for her and get her situated, take my seat and grip the steering wheel to hold myself back. To keep from reaching over and sliding my hand between her thighs and letting it rest there while I drive, like I always have, in that spot reserved for me. But I know she's still fragile, I know I have to be careful with her, and be happy she's come this far.

But I want all of her back. If it were up to me, I'd take her to a motel bed this instant and undress her and spend the afternoon taking her all in, all the secret parts of her I've missed for so long. But I know that's not where we are right now. She's still recovering. She's been through the mill and then some.

"You're beautiful babe, ya know that?" And she smiles over at me, and I take her hand and pull it to my mouth to kiss it, then intertwine with her fingers, letting our hands come to rest on the console between us, and that's a start.

We talk about the boys for most of the drive, and I tell her all the funny things they've done and said, but I know it's hard for her to hear how much they missed her. I make sure to remind her that we're going home now, and we can start up where we left off and in time, all this will come to feel like some faraway dream..

* * *

It already feels like a faraway dream. The past two years of my life is lost to a crippling fog.

Our fingers intertwine and I have to hold back from puling his hand where I need it. What I really want is to be naked beside him. To feel safe against warm skin and muscle. To find who we used to be, who we always were.

To be alive and sure and young...

 _I lock against him and hold him close, hold him for dear life. "I want you inside me. Darrel. Always."_

But I'm a mental patient, and he'd probably only think I was acting crazy or manic. Dr. James told him to keep an eye out for that didn't he?

He's so gorgeous and he's mine, and I can't reach out and have him.

I watch my name on his skin, moving with his bicep as he switches gears.

On impulse I tell him, "Don't you know I dreamed about you? Every night."

His smile stretches like a lazy cat. "Darlin' you can't even imagine how I dreamed 'bout you."

And I hope his dreams were as dirty as mine, but I don't say that.

xXx

Thirty miles from Tulsa and I'm ravenous. For my babies. My pull to them is painful and primal and Darrel isn't driving fast enough. Get me to them dammit. My nerves are shot and I need a cigarette. My breathing is rushed and I put my hand against my chest that's struggling and feels hot to the touch. My God. I need Ponyboy to sleep against me. I need to kiss Darry's forehead. I need Soda to call me Momma. So bad it makes me nauseated. I imagine myself ripping off my dress and tearing through the streets of Tulsa, screaming like a mad woman until I make it to my door.

"You okay babe?" Darrel's eyeing me, concerned. And I know we're almost there and I count and find the pattern of the slats in the air vents, and I'm starting to steady out, but I'm still jumpy.

"You think I can make it up to them?" I ask him out of nowhere, so he doesn't have a chance to give a prepared answer. I want him to be honest.

He doesn't hesitate. "Of course. They're children. Your children." He's sure it's as simple as that. But there's one child he hasn't brought up today as much as the other two and that's the one who's scaring me.

"Even Darry?"

A split second tell. A pause, a shift only I could detect before he assures me, "Yeah, even Darry." And I nod like I'm satisfied with his answer, while a mountain of worry builds strong inside my gut, boulder crashing over boulder.

Our little house comes into view.

The sound of gravel summons two little boys outside.

They fly off the porch, with hands outstretched, joyful shouts of "They're here, they're here."

I race to reach them, to devour and take them in, breathe them in. I _am_ them and they are me.

And it's not lost on me how clean and put together they are in neat clothes, their hair combed, both of them looking sharp as tacks, like they've stepped out of the Sears Roebuck catalog. And I'm fully aware how much effort it takes to pull that off with these two.

There are so many things they say they want to show me, and I'm being pulled inside by tugs and shoves and snakes and snails and puppy dog tails.

And there, up in the corner of the porch, stands the third little boy, my beautiful child who hovers just outside all the excitement, his hands in pockets, with watchful eyes and a grave expression. And I can tell he's getting a subtle but stern reminder from his daddy about how he should behave. But I don't want him to _have_ to do anything but what comes natural. And real.

And real is the only way my Darry could ever imagine being. He defies his father and walks into the house without a word.

But not once did his eyes ever leave me.

 **A/N:** The Outsiders by SE Hinton

 _So sorry to inundate you with so much backstory. But hey, you did get to see the exact split-second Darry Curtis was conceived so that's something right? I hope that makes up for it :) Thank you to all those who are still reading!_


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